CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Emma

Terrence watched me from the deep shadows of the night as I traipsed through lawned gardens, where the dense stand of trees bespangled with ornamental string lights set a soft glow along the cobbled pathway for a safe journey back to the hotel.

It’s amazing what fresh air and a late-night stroll can do for someone’s mental health. I left the reception in a state of feverish perturbation, overwhelmed by the ultimatum to follow my heart, as I should not be imposed upon by anyone, let alone the sister’s overzealousness in matchmaking services and courtship manoeuvres, but thirty minutes of alone time did me a world of good. It provided the perfect opportunity to determine whether harboured feelings for a particular man should be pursued.

Not that it took long for me to draw a conclusion. I knew this morning, when en route to Mary’s suite for advice, well before the man presented himself in a déshabillé of picture-perfect handsomeness, we had unfinished business.

Inhaling a breath of encouragement, I raised a fist to the door and vacillated between optimism and pessimism in the encumbrance of unpredictability. Now that I am here, ready to wear my heart on my sleeve, I struggled with feelings of potential rejection.

Taking the phone out of my bag and typing the password to unlock the screen, I thumbed through contacts, clicked on his name and sent the first thing that came to mind.

Me: And your heart’s against my chest. Your lips pressed to my neck. I’m falling for your eyes. But they don’t know me yet.

He read the text five seconds later.

My heart palpitated.

He is on his phone now, reading the messages as they land. It only heightened nervousness, knowing that he was waiting to see what I had to say.

Big Guy: Then, why do you push me away?

Me: I’ve been feeling everything. From hate to love. From love to lust. From lust to truth. I guess that’s how I know you.

Big Guy: Yeah, I thought you were falling for me, too.

Me: So, I hold you close to help you give it up.

Big Guy: What is this, Emma? Just be straight with me.

Me: So, kiss me like you wanna be loved.

Big Guy: What? Where are you?

Me: Open the door.

Not bothering to check if he had replied to the final message, I slipped the phone into the clutch bag’s side compartment, breathed in courage and tapped the door determinedly.

Part of me expected the curtain to twitch or the peephole to bedim. Most people are chary of opening the door without safety procedures, especially when it is late at night and eerily dark outside.

But Big Guy is not likemost people. He did not hesitate long enough to question an unexpected visitor. He unlocked the back door, swung it open, and stood there like a statue of impotent perplexity, with a long white gold chain between the pectoral muscles of his bare chest and a casual pair of grey jogging bottoms hanging low on his waist.

A frown sat on his brow as he stared through me. “Emma?”

I stayed put for a short moment, relieved that he was alone and not preoccupied with the bridesmaid. “Did I wake you up?”

“No.” Brad’s shoulder leaned against the door frame, his heavy-lidded eyes, afire with adoration, toured the entire length of my body. “You wore the dress.”

“Yes.” A shy blush attacked my neck and cheeks. “I am surprised you noticed.”

“I noticed.” He deliberately paused for me to respond, but when no words left my mouth, inquisitiveness got the better of him. “What’s this about?”

My fingers wrangled apprehensively. “May I come in?”

Brad glared at me for a nanosecond, then stepped back, holding the door open for me to enter his private space.

Once I was safely inside the dark suite, he locked the door, the bolt clicking into place mechanically with finality.

“I want to get some stuff off my chest,” I said, chary of the man’s predictable short fuse. I had to handle specific subjects sensitively. “Hugo came into my life when I was at my lowest. He did what most friends do when someone they care about is sad. He tried to be there for me, whether it be someone to talk to in and out or a couple of ready meals in the fridge so that I had no cooking duties to worry about…” Panic escalated when he blew out an exasperated breath. “What I am trying to say is I can live without him. If knowing him hurts you, then it’s a no-brainer. You come first.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You would choose me over him?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly, and although he seemed pleased by the revelation, he did not revert to smugness. He was pensive, as if to weigh over the previously unknown fact mentally. “Mary invited Hugo to the wedding. I think she was playing matchmaker…” God, I am so nervous. My body trembled from head to toe involuntarily. “You know my sister. She likes to be in everyone’s business.”

“I do not see her in you.” His throat muscles worked tirelessly to swallow. He tried not to look at me, but his eyes found their way back to my face during each course of diversion. “You are nothing alike.”

Agreeing to a certain extent, I placed the clutch bag on the wooden dresser and walked toward him on unsteady legs. “Not one similarity?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Do not start me on contrasting personalities. I can only handle that wench in small doses. But you…” He stood taller, with eyebrows drawn and lips twisted disdainfully. “It’s not important. Did you get everything off your chest?”

“You stayed away,” I thought out loud, and his face scrunched in puzzlement. “Tonight, when everyone celebrated in the ballroom, you made a conscious decision to avoid me.”

“Avoidance is an act of cowardice. If you think I kept a respectable distance for reasons other than thoughtfulness, you clearly do not know me.” He huffed out a breath of resignation. “Maybe I kicked back with randomers to let my fake girlfriend spend quality time with her younger sister.” His words came out brusque and affronted. “Either that, or I sit at the table and make you uncomfortable.”

I had to lay all my cards on the table for us to move forward. “Did you understand the text message?” I put him on the spot, and he looked at the floor, scratching his bare chest. “If avoidance is an act of cowardice and you claim to be anything but, why do you evade the question?”

“I am not an evader.” His deep-set eyes focused on my face. “I Googled the lyrics and downloaded the song. I am not a fan of Ed Sheeran, but I will listen to his music because you like him.” He leaned closer, the slow but determined movement forcing me to endure the intensity of his cold stare. I had to crane my neck to look at him. “Does that answer your question?”

“No,” I whispered, and his breath caught when my hands timidly touched his side, where they progressed smoothly along the rigid planes of his torso to the broad expanse of his shoulders. “Am I making a fool out of myself?”

“Foolishness is subjective.” The belated comprehension of why I came to him flashed in his eyes. “I happen to like this side of you. It gives me hope.”

What I had to say to this man required more than words. I inched closer and kissed the edge of his lips, a soft brush that weakened me to the brittle core.

“I will not let you get away this time.” His breath held in anticipation when I curled an arm around his shoulders and pulled myself to him. “Think about that before you make any promises, Emma.”

My heart was beating at a concerning pace. “This feels like falling in love.”

His mouth came down on mine, stealing Ed’s lyrics along with my breath. He groaned, low and throaty, when our tongues reacquainted. He kissed me with firm resoluteness, sealing the deal with action, not words.

I was responsive, my lips parting for our tongues to move in a sensual dance. It was final. No going back now. I made a promise to him and myself that we were in this together.

Fingers tousling through his hair, I drowned in the taste of whiskey on his tongue.

His hips pinned me against the door, leaving no room for movement or hesitation. A ripple of excitement travelled through me when his hands crept beneath the satin fabric of my dress to the apex of my thighs. His fingers flexed desperately to grapple the curve of my derrière. He took my rear end into his possession, abruptly picked me up and held me upright against his strong, muscular body like I weighed nothing.

“Big Guy,” I moaned into his mouth, locking my legs around him at the ankles.

His fierce eyes held me in place as he peeled down the front of my dress one thin strap at a time until my breasts, adorned with intricate lace, displayed for him.

Then, slowly, almost gingerly, he reached behind my back to unclasp my bra.

His gaze never steered from my face. Even when my breasts fell between us, he stared deep into my eyes or admired the constellation of beauty spots on my cheeks. Like he was in awe of me. Like I was too good to be true.

“Perfect,” he whispered, his mouth moving to the line of my jaw to leave open-mouthed kisses to the column of my neck. “There will never be another woman.” His lips to my throat were like sweet caresses to the heart. “Not if you let me have you.”

His mouth never came up for air as he carried me to the bed. He kissed me as if his life depended on it-like he could notbreathewithout it.

“I love the dress,” he said between kisses, lowering me to the mattress. “I could barely keep my eyes off you earlier. Never, not in my wildest dreams, did I think the night would end with you beneath me.” His voice was shaky, each word punctuated raspily. “I have never been this nervous with a woman, Emma.”

My eyelashes fluttered shut in rapture when his lips travelled down the valley of my breast. I should have predicted the sharp bite of his teeth nipping my chest, the suckle of his mouth leaving a possessive mark on my skin.

He braced one hand above my head and reclaimed my lips for a deep, passionate kiss, the feel of his fully erect cock against my hip sending an anxious warmth through my body. His hips nudged between my thighs, silently asking for space, and I obliged, opening my legs further for him to settle.

A soft moan caught the back of my throat when the fiery stimulation of his bulge grinding against my sex sent waves of pleasure through me. He took the opportunity to stroke our tongues together, to devour my mouth and kiss me ravenously. He tasted the night of champagne I had consumed, all while his skilful hands peeled the dress down my body until it lay in a pool of satin on the floor.

My underwear followed.

I was bare for him.

But our kiss was all he cared about.

He could not break away.

“It’s not fair,” I breathed between kisses, and his eyes lifted to greet mine. “I am your complete mercy. It’s only right that you return the favour and get naked…” His fingers touched me downthere, through the folds of my slick pussy, and my thighs widened shamelessly. “Tell me a lie, Big Guy.”

“I am not crazy about you,” he said throatily, pushing two fingers into me, searching for my G-spot and applying gentle pressure to my walls. He located the sensitive place where I throbbed with desire and worked me with the steady rhythm of deftness. “Christ, I have thought about this moment ever since that night you asked for a life lesson on how to kiss.” It was a joke, but not one of us laughed. We were too lost in the rarity of us to slice through the hot tension in the air. “You consumed me, Sweetheart.”

Another moan fell from my lips. I could not be sure whether it was the intensity of him fucking me with his fingers or the affectionate name drop. It’s been a while since he used the term of endearment.

Pressure built in my lower tummy as my hips bucked and rode his fingers. His thumb circled my clit, just one gentle brush, and my spine anchored in ecstasy.

I know how to pleasure myself, as I have done it more times than I care to admit, but there is something achingly different about him doing it for me.

His fingers hit deeper, harder and faster, drawing out moan after moan as I crested the pleasurable waves deep within.

I recognised the signs of accomplishment from before when he finger-fucked me until nothing but breathless pants and soaked sheets lay between us.

I gripped the nape of his neck, needing to hold on and cried out as the powerful force of my orgasm shot through my body.

My wetness soaked his hand in short bursts as I came hard with his name on my lips.

“Christ,” he groaned in my ear, a tremor in his voice and a shudder in his body. His fingers slowed, moving in and out expertly to bring me down from the high. “You are so fucking ready for me.”

There was no talk of reciprocation.

He was not interested in the experimentation of oral sex.

Not tonight. Everything else could wait.

Right now, we have to have each other.

His joggers came down alongside his boxers.

I knew what he wanted and needed to enjoy this moment, so I rolled over and went onto my knees, cheek to the mattress, spine bowed, and arse lifted.

The fears I had because of Killian had become an afterthought along the way. I trusted this man with my life. He would take it easy on me. He would not deliberately hurt me or use me at his disposal.

From my vantage point, I watched with my breath stuck in my throat as his large hand settled on the bed next to my head, then melted to the invigorating feel of his other hand skimming the side of my body. He admired every curve, blemish and imperfection. His fingers traced the distance of my spin, the assemblage of beauty marks and the swell of my arse.

He squeezed my hip bone reassuringly and pushed on the base of my spine until I lay flat on my stomach.

I seized up, unprepared for the position. I would be completely restricted and smothered by him. I am not sure if I am quite ready for his overpowering movements whilst my face is shoved down.

Brad had other ideas, though. Suddenly, without a word whispered between us, he repositioned me until I was on my back again with the most handsome man in my sights.

My lips parted to ask if everything was okay or if I had done something wrong when I felt the engorged head of his cock probing my entrance.

Fingers clawing at the sheet, I tightened involuntarily as the invasion. “Big Guy,” I whimpered against his lips. The overwhelming feeling of being stretched to accommodate his length and girth wracked every bone in my body with pre-sex nerves. “Please tell me the worst part is over.”

His face buried in the groove of my neck to stifle an amused chuckle. Still, he tried to be sensitive, his thumb rubbing my hip bone tenderly, his lips paying homage to the prominent bone of my clavicle.

Keeping one arm over his shoulders, I reached between our sweat-misted bodies to investigate, and the dilemma only added to my dismay. “You are barely in.” My stomach clenched in worriment. “I am going to be split in half.”

“Stop talking.” His mouth sought my lips for another kiss, the hot lash of his tongue removing fear and doubt. “Your thighs are crushing my waist.”

My hands speared through his lustrous hair, the silky strands weaving through my fingers. I told myself to get it together, to calm down and loosen the iron grip my thighs had on his waistline, but to no avail. I had never felt pain like it in my life. I almost backed out and withdrew from the commitment. “I might not survive.”

“You give me way too much credit.” He palmed my cheek and realigned our eyes as he eased himself into me. Each inch intensified my discomfort, but he unravelled the tension in the air with care and persistence until his length was agonisingly wedged inside me. “Relax,” he said hoarsely, his hips stationary between my thighs, and I listened to his command, opening myself for his liking. “You are so fucking perfect.”

My skin sprouted goosebumps when his mouth descended upon mine for a kiss, his tongue entering my mouth at the perfect angle for a taste of intimacy, slow and tender.

He waited for the first moan of approval to slip through my lips before his hips moved back, but not considerably. He found a short, tight and unhurried pace for me to forget about the size of his cock and the slight pain of unfamiliarity.

After all, I had not trusted a man with my body until Big Guy. I was practically a virgin.

Brad’s forearms rested on either side of my head. He dragged his cock out further, pushed forward and repeated the same tame movement all over again.

Each impale snatched the oxygen out of my lungs, the unexpected hitch of my breath encouraging him to keep going.

He was thoughtful and patient with me, eyeing my facial expressions for any sign of discomposure.

“You good?” His teeth nibbled the shell of my ear, and I nodded in a lovesick daze. “Use your words, Sweetheart.”

“Brad,” I moaned, raking my fingernails down the synapses of his muscular back. Judging by the bow of his spine and the sibilant hiss on his lips, he loved the slight pain I inflicted. “Yes.”

A feverish shiver skated down my spine when his hips tilted forward. He pulled one of my legs around his waist to allow more room to sink deeper, then slid an arm under my back to hold me closer.

I could not move if I wanted to. He was taking complete control of each thrust. And I let him. I let him because I knew how important it was for him to find the intimacy he craved. I let him because I loved being in the safety of his arms, the triumph of his possession and the forefront of his mind.

Brad sensed that I was ready to give myself to him completely. He gripped my hips, picking up the pace, shoving into me faster and harder with unrestrained vigour. His length was punishing. I might have protested initially but could not get enough of it now.

A strangled noise trapped in my throat. I held him close and did my utmost to meet him thrust for thrust.

He hit another pleasure spot. Incapable of suppressing the sudden explosion of passion, I turned my head into the pillow to hide from him, which lasted for no more than three seconds because he wanted all of me in every way that counted. His hand captured my jaw, pulling me back for our lips to reconnect. I breathed him in, the gentle contact uncaging butterflies in my stomach.

“Emma.” He fisted the hair on top of my head, the stroke of his length nothing short of all-consuming. His hips pinned me to the bed, and I grappled his powerful arms for support, his muscles flexing under my fingers. “I got you.”

Nodding dazedly, I held onto him like I would fall overboard without him, which is not a far stretch from the truth, as I dangled precariously close to the edge of the bed. Not that he had any intention of letting me crash and fall. I was beneath him. My thighs opened widely to give him all the necessary space to fulfil our desires.

Brad’s heated gaze dropped briefly to admire breasts as they jerked, the stiff peaks of my nipples, but the sound of my unrestrained moan did more for him. He was all about my pleasure and comfort. My face. My lips. My eyes. Only me.

Our skin slipped against each other seamlessly as beads of sweat carried our unrushed movements. Yet, even with the mixture of our arousals, I struggled to take him. He was painfully big, much larger in action. I underestimated just how long it would take to adjust to his thickness.

Squirming beneath him, I dug my fingernails into his thrusting backside as he fucked me into the mattress. I was close, seconds away from experiencing another orgasm. I wanted it. I was desperate for it-desperate for him.

“Not yet,” he rasped, slowing down fractionally, so I would not buckle in his arms and come undone. “You have to wait for me.”

His arm behind my back tightened as he rolled onto his back. He brought me with him, keeping us connected, and helped me straddle his waist.

I was stunned but did not show it. I acted as though the unplanned switch was not immensely progressive on his part.

“Come here.” He gripped the series of silver chains around my neck, pulling me down for a slow, breathless kiss. My hand rested on his chest, his erratic heartbeat thumping against my palm. “I am not falling for you.”

I drew in a sharp intake of breath. “Do not lie to me.”

“It’s the only way I know how to be honest with you.”

His mouth slanted over mine, kissing me with the kind of passion I only witnessed in romance movies.

The second his fingers squeezed my backside, prompting me to move, to ride him, I rocked my hips, working his entire length.

He groaned deep within his chest, the throaty noise unlike anything I had ever heard.

I felt every inch of him. I knew, this time tomorrow, I would still feel him there, but there would be no regrets.

“Emma.” My name hissing from his lips was enough to send me over the edge. I had to bite my lip to distract myself from combusting above him. “That’s it.”

Oh, God. I could not take much more. My body was on fire. Sweat trickled down my breasts as they bounced in front of him.

His arms tightened around my body, holding me tightly as his knees pushed into the back of my thighs and his hips slammed into me. He passed the point of slow and steady. He wanted to be close to me, skin-on-skin, with locked eyes and hard thrusts. His teeth nipped and suckled a torturous path to my throat, where the onslaught of passion marks left a burn in his wake. He tasted tonight’s perfume on my skin, the pulse in my veins on his tongue.

Sliding up and down his length, I drove myself crazy, rocking my hips above him, taking him deeper and deeper.

I prolonged the torture, the pain mixed with pleasure, and blindly chased the release I burned with the desire to achieve.

He captured my hoarse whimpers with a scorching kiss, tasting and savouring. I was a goner. I could barely hold myself together. Not when reckless passion surged through our bodies. Not with his cock buried to the hilt.

“Big Guy,” I keened, his rough, breath-snatching pumps hitting that tender spot. “I am close. I can’t hold off…” His cock swelled and throbbed, the first spurt of him emptying inside the deepest depths of my body, throwing me off equilibrium. “Brad…”

“That’s it,” he groaned, holding my jaw with rigid fingers, forcing me to look him in the eye as he spoke. “You look at me when you cum.”

We came simultaneously, breathing heavily against each other’s mouths, not breaking eye contact or shying away from the intensity of passion.

Emma Hughes before Brad Jones could never be so confident. But this man knew how to make a woman feel empowered and comfortable in her own skin. I never thought about the stretch marks on my stomach or its loose skin. Imperfections never entered my head once because he never cared or seemed to notice. I was enough for him.

My head was fuzzy. I released the breath I was holding, the strong effects of my orgasm gradually dispersing through my body and knocking me for six. “Oh, shit,” I said, dead to the world as I collapsed on his chest. “You are something else.”

Brad laughed gutturally, his fingers playing with the ends of my sweat-slicked hair. His attention moved to my back, where he drew patterns with the soft pads of his fingers. “Spend the night with me.”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. I wanted to be with him and only him. “You have to pretend not to notice me at brunch tomorrow.”

“Impossible.” He drew what very much resembled a heart on my back. “I only see you.”

My heart skipped a beat. “You waited longer than you should have.”

“You were worth the wait.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I trust my gut.” His hand smoothed along the curve of my ass. “What happens now? I will continue to help your sister, but I want to return to London with you at my side. I am serious about us.”

“I know.” I draped myself across his sprawled out body. “I am not running away from you, Big Guy. I am yours for as long as you want.”

He was contemplative. “Do you want to date?”

I would love to have more.

“Do you want to be with me?” he asked, and I gave him my eyes. “Hey, I made my feelings clear already. If you want to be in a relationship with me, I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” I admitted, and a low, cocky smirk twitched his lips. “I want to be with you. I want to find out if you are the guy I am supposed to grow old and wrinkly with. How does that sound?”

“The old and wrinkly part got me thinking about botox again,” he half-joked, and I poked him in the side, which only urged him to kiss me again, longer this time, his tongue in my mouth, his fingers tangled in my hair. “You just made me really fucking happy, Sweetheart.” His forehead touched mine. “And Dominic?”

“I love Little Guy,” I reassured him, and a harsh breath flew out of his mouth. “Maybe I can invite myself over on Monday. The three of us can have a sleepover.”

“Seriously?” His thumb circled my cheek. “You would do that?”

“I care about you-both of you,” I added, easing off his cock with a wince. “Oh, Shit. I think you broke my vagina.” My body collapsed on the bed next to him for a well-deserved respite. “I am ready to tackle the world again.” My heart squeezed as I stared at the ceiling. “I miss my son. I always miss him. But I have to live. I know that makes me sound like an awful mother. I am not supposed to give up hope. I am supposed to hold out until the very end.”

Brad propped onto one elbow, his ringed fingers splaying on my stomach.

“Maybe he will come back someday. Maybe he won’t,” I said, feeling a sharp twinge of guilt in my chest. “Either way, I have to go on, or I will die of a broken heart.”

“Never doubt yourself. You are not an awful mother,” he said decisively, and I prayed those words did not come back and bite me in the arse. “Your son loves you. He willalwayslove you.”

“I can fight through this with you at my side.” I found his hand and laced our fingers together. “One step at a time, right?”

“Yes.” His lips whispered a kiss on my shoulder. “You keep that hope, though. I fight hard for the people I care about.” His eyes cast over my face as if to memorise every detail. “Carter is family. I waged war against the underworld to find him. And I will find him because I am determined.”

“I believe you.” Lifting our joint hands to my lips, I left a grateful kiss on his wrist. “Do you want to go again?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Brad flipped me onto my stomach, leaving a trail of warm kisses along my spine as he crawled over my body. “I can go all night, Sweetheart.” His teeth sank into the nape of my neck, and I winced through the sensation of his swollen crown at my entrance. “Can you handle it?”

“Yes.” My head turned for our lips to meet for a soft kiss. “I can handleyou.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Brad

Emma Hughes is the epitome of perfection. I am weak for her green eyes, the curve of her infectious smile and the distinctiveness of her contagious laughter. Every beauty spot on her skin. Too many to count. Yet, I guesstimated the profusion of each brown mark throughout the night when familiarising myself with the sinful shape of her flawless body because I wanted to memorise the details most men overlooked or deemed insignificant.

Irresistible.

Dangerous.

Mine.

My girl is dangerously beautiful and irresistibly addictive. If I was not unquenchably thirsty, kissing her delectable lips like a starved man, so fucking hungry for more, I was lost in the erogenous zones of her body, between her splayed thighs, the sweetest taste of sin on my tongue.

Emma is stretched out on the bed. Her thighs spread apart, her fingers tugging the strands of my hair at the roots as she ground herself against my mouth. Her pussy, silky smooth and dripping cum, contracted around my fingers. Suckling the swollen nub of her sensitive clit, I slipped another digit through her plump folds with an effortless dexterity, feeling her pulse uncontrollably.

My girl is naughty. I never imagined a night of passion and sex when she knocked on the room door last night. Hopeful, yes, but expectations were relatively low, especially after the first round, when she swore her cunt was out of business.

I figured she’d wait for several days before she demanded more.

Not this beauty.

She is desperate.

I am a willing participant and happy to be of service.

Her fingers tousled my hair, clutching harshly, her hips lifting off the mattress in search of a release. Her pussy begged to be eaten, to be filled to the brim.

Two fingers parting her smooth lips, the tip of my tongue caressed her nerve endings, up and down, side to side.

Stubble jaw grazing her inner thighs, I licked her slit with tantalising strokes, acutely aware of how much she craves continual stimulation.

My hand flattened on her lower stomach to restrain her movements, keeping her firm to the mattress, where the soaked, creased sheet bunched messily beneath her biteable rear end.

I nipped, sucked and kissed her arse cheek, her soft skin puce with blood-red love bites. I have ruined her body, leaving marks wherever I could so she could see them later, a possessive reminder of who she belonged to. Me. Only me. Christ, I am one lucky man.

“Yes.” Her thighs trembled involuntarily. “Yes, Brad. Fuck. Yes.”

My low-lidded gaze coasted over the graceful curves of her body.

Her lush breasts, held by the delicate grasp of her fingers, jounced beautifully. Her spine anchored in rapture with every flick of my tongue to her pussy.

Needy would be an understatement.

My girl had a newfound interest in orgasmic oral sex.

Direct clitoral stimulation only increased sexual pleasure. I learned pretty quickly what to execute and what to avoid. Emma liked the lighter moves, the gentle licks to her labia, but shepreferredhard sucks and deep finger fucks, her hips right on the edge of the bed, her legs pushed back, or her arse in the air. Any position worked as long as I hit thefeel-goodspot.

Emma played the power dynamic well, throned on the bed like a goddess of seduction, whilst her giver kneeled on the floor in reverence.

Hand skimming along her sweat-mistled stomach, I grabbed a handful of her luscious breast, her sensitive nipple rock-hard on my palm.

My thumb traced her carved mound, the goosebumps along the circumference of her areola.

I merely toyed with her at this point, prolonging the inevitable with systematic foreplay and methodical precision.

She is at the precipice of climax. I could let her cum. But I enjoyed the edging method far too much. Delayed gratification is worth it in the end. I am confident that she will thank me for it later.

I groaned in approval when she reached between us to touch herself, to feel my tongue swirl through her fingers and folds. “Use your words, Sweetheart.”

“You would make me beg for more.” Her weak voice put a smile on my face. “Please, I am dying here.” Propping onto her elbows, she widened her thighs further, knees virtually nailed to the mattress, and watched in awe as I took her delicious clit into my mouth. “Oh, Shit.” Her head fell back, her feminine neck and kissable collarbone in the highest demand of perpetual ravishment. “Brad…”

“You are so fuckabale.” At the centre of her delectation, I shoved my fingers in and out of her tight cunt, her juices trickling down my wrist in tasteful dews. She was spread open for the taking, her lips glistening with sin, her hips rolling restlessly. My cock appreciated the view of her responsive body. “You were made for me.”

Her breathless nod was eager.

Fingers scissoring the edge of her walls, locating the barely explored region of her G-spot, I rubbed rhythmically, the deep penetration driving her wild.

Her clit throbbed under my tongue, her essence raining fine droplets down the groove of her arse onto the damp sheet.

Emma’s captivating eyes locked on my face. I closed my entire mouth around her and sucked her engorged clit, gently and repeatedly, three fingers thrusting into her tight hole.

“Big Guy…” Her thighs moved up and down in a restive state as I lapped and tongued her quivering flesh. “I need to cum…”

My fingers drove harder, right to the bone of my knuckles, until I felt the first throb of accomplishment.

With a decorous suckle on her pearlescent bud, I moved to her perspiration-dusted abdomen and ran my tongue from the dip of her navel to the valley of her breasts.

Beautiful.

Knee balancing on the bed in the middle of her slackened thighs, I crawled over her body, forcing her to lie back and enjoy the attention.

“I want to hear my name when you moan,” I breathed in her ear, fingers strumming her clit with rapid determination and unforced exactness. “Words, Emma.”

“Brad,” shemoaned, and Ishivered, the violent gush of her orgasm spraying over my hand, soaking the sheet. “God. I…” Her fingernails sank into my shoulders and seared down my back with painful marks of delectation, her pussy clenching my fingers as she rode the euphoric wave of her orgasm. “Oh, God! Yes!”

I have made a woman squirt more times than I can count. It is a skill I mastered long ago when the redhead from Club 11 taught me the tricks of the trade.

But I was too concerned with my own pleasure to value the look of a satisfied woman post-ejaculation.

Emma’s rosy cheeks, sweat-slicked forehead, and breath of contentment did more for me than self-gratification. I am turned on by another’s pleasure. Generosity would be a first.

Exploring the slippery lips of her hot sex, I gathered her sweet arousal, eased two fingers into her mouth and ardently stared as she tasted herself. “I want you, Emma.”

“Yeah?” Her lips uncaged my fingers with a wet pop. “You have me-” I flipped her over, without warning, and smacked her fleshy arse cheek. Proficient handwork. A nice print to kiss later. “Brad,” she squealed, grasping the sheet with white-knuckled anticipation. “You are insatiable. You know that, right?”

“You satisfy me.” I kissed a path from the bottom of her spine to the nape of her neck and gripped her there, holding her to the bed beneath me whilst I bestride the shapely cushion of her sexy arse. “We should discuss contraceptives.”

My cock, long, hard and leaking cum, is ready for more, but there will be life-long consequences if we continue to fuck each other raw.

“I do not have a very good track record with unprotected sex. You could…” Get pregnant, I thought. “You know how reproduction works.”

“I can take an emergency contraceptive,” Emma promised, and I nodded into the groove of her neck. I never doubted her. She will be in the nearest pharmacy when she vacates the venue to outmanoeuvre any unwanted pregnancies. “I will get a birth control prescription when I return to London. You have no worries in that department.” Her lips pushed into an insipid pout. “I just realised something.”

“Yeah?” My lips peppered her jaw. “Enlighten me.”

“I refuse to have any more kids,” she said, her eyes flickering over my face in wonder. “I don’t want it, Big Guy.”

I get it.

“We are on the same page.” Brushing strands of hair off her flushed cheek, I kissed her slowly, deeply and passionately. “I can live without more dependents. I barely have time for the ones I…” My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Besides, I am busy trying to salvage Warren Enterprise. I have to regain control of his criminal empire. It’s not like I can effectuate a takeover of the underworld with a daycare centre on the back burner.”

“You lost control?” Her tone was soft and neutral. “What does that mean for you and the syndicate?”

“It means I failed,” I said, as a matter of fact. “If I do not find a way to stop Ignazio Corrazzo…”

It then occurred to me that she had no understanding of how the institution is criminally charged or privately operated.

The Italian Mafia versus The Warren Syndicate is uncharted territory for ordinary people like Emma Hughes.

You had to be in the game to know how to play it.

For numerous reasons, without a scintilla of doubt, I would never invite her for a seat at the table (only one woman presided over the presence of brothers, and that was the boss’s wife).

Firstly, the syndicate is a predominantly male workforce.

Misogynistic?

Sexist?

Or is it imperial nobility?

Chivalry is not leaving women in the firing line of criminal adversaries to be hung, drawn and quartered.

Men are wired to protect and provide. They gallantly stand aside in life-threatening situations for female survivors to escape from sinister catastrophes. It is one of many prescriptive notions of manhood.

Secondly, a concise point of reason, Emma is not cut out for violence and lawlessness. The less she knows about my lifestyle, the better.

“I was not born to rule,” I admitted, albeit regretfully. “I worked better as second-in-command.”

“Your boss appointed you as next in authority because he knew, if the time should happen to arise, you had the skills and qualities to command on his behalf.”

And for that reason alone, I questioned his poor decision-making and departmental mismanagement on a daily basis.

“Brad,” she hummed in contemplation. “Would the downfall of the syndicate have eventuated if he’d dodged life imprisonment? Or if someone else had governed in your place?”

I wish I knew the answer.

We got too comfortable, too complacent and too cocky. We thought our ship was unsinkable, our bond was unconquerable, and our reign over the criminal underworld was indomitable. We learned the hard way just how the mighty could fall when our leader paid the price for arrogance and ignorance. If we had known how quickly venomous snakes spawned in the foolish preoccupation of self-centeredness, we could have prevented the demise of The Warren Empire. We could have saved him from the legal punishment of Her Majesty’s court and a life sentence behind bars.

“No,” I answered after a long pause of reflection. “You know what? I can argue all day that unfortunate consequences were avoidable, but that would be factually incorrect.”

And it has taken months and months of depressing self-doubt and guarded circumspection to realise how the odds were stacked against me before I could swing into action and devote myself to The Brotherhood as the sovereign figurehead of the underworld instead of an associate.

“We lost to the Italian Mafia in the throes of Warren versus Crown. Perhaps, in retrospect, tragedies wereunavoidable.” My mind did not cease to race with possibilities of criminal wars or the relinquishment of territories. “I never failed the institution. I was scapegoated by the streets and false allies to pick up the pieces of desertion and betrayal. Renegades.”

Emma is understandably nonplussed by the unintelligible murmurs of an overburdened man with cognitive conflicts and psychological turmoil.

“I am alive,” I said, more for my benefit. “Warren is alive. Alexa, Vincent, Nate, Josh, Eli…”

A mob of loyal soldiers came to an early standby by order of Command. They are waiting for management and guidance. All I had to do was put a plan into action, and the rest would be history-starting with the underlings and errand bitches.

“Go back to basics if all else fails,” I quoted the words of a sagacious man. “If it worked before, it will work again.” The logic behind rumination was revolutionary. “Warren prepared me for this moment. He always knew this day would come.”

Emma scrutinised my face in perplexity.

“I forgot how to listen.” A familiar surge of strength and optimism flooded my veins. “I have been that man’s eyes and ears since the inception of The Brotherhood. I am the voice of reason when he is beset with difficulties and problems. I always get shit done, Emma.”

“I am not even going to pretend to understand.” Her brows jumped a fraction. “I am completely lost.”

Fingers tangling in the wispy tendrils of her hair, I kissed her furrowed forehead. “You are a genius.”

“I-what? No!” Her tone brooked no argument. “Brad, I am merely an unqualified listener.”

“I know what I have to do.” To think, I left London posthaste, with an urge to shirk the responsibilities of everyday life and never go back, but after this fantabulous conversation, I am more than ready for an unscheduled visit to Club 11. An impromptu closed-door conclave is underway. “As for the toughest decision yet.” My lips teased the constellation of rhinestone studs along the helix of her red-tipped ear. “Do I fuck you now or later?”

Time is of the essence. I had to shower, change into a suit and make myself presentable for family brunch with Mary, but honestly, I would trade everything to stay in bed with this woman.

I have waited a long time, hours, days, months, to be with her, to claim her, to keep her. I am not ready to face the world or confront reality. Not yet. Life can wait.

“We should get out of bed.” Emma flinched when I proprietorially spread her arse cheeks to get a glimpse of her puckered hole. Christ, I could not wait to get inside that. “What are you doing?” Her hand woodshed aimlessly behind her back to slap my covetous fingers away from forbidden zones. “You better get away from my…butt hole.”

“Your what?” Massaging the well-proportionate globes of her rear end, I feathered the tips of my fingers along her spine. “But I like your butt.”

“It sounds wrong when you say it.” Her shoulders rattled as laughter surpassed annoyance. “I prefer yourdirtyside.”

“Are you flirting with me, Sweetheart?” My fingersflirtedwith her shoulder blades, her airy laughter turning into hiccups. “Do you need a jump scare or what?”

Emma’s laughter faded. Then, with our eyes locked on each other, she looked at me like I was some kind of enigma. “No.”

“What’s that look?”

“There is no look.”

“There is definitely a look.”

“Fine.” Her cheek rested on her folded arms. “You might be the third best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Really?” Carter will always come first. “And the second?”

“My twin,” she said with a proud yet teasing twinkle in her eye. “Hey, I am loyal. He was my first-ever housemate. We shared the same womb.”

“Benjamin is a decent geezer.” My semi-hard cock hung weightily between her thighs as my groin made contact with her arse cheeks. “But talk of your brother will have to wait. There are more pressing issues that I need to bring to your immediate attention.”

“Yeah?” Her long, dark eyelashes fluttered closed. “And what is thegrowingproblem?”

I bit back a laugh, the sexual innuendo flying straight over my head.

“Big Guy…” She inhaled a deep breath as if necessitating additional oxygen to continue. “Where did you go?”

“I never left you.” Holding her by the waist, which fit perfectly in my hands, I relaxed on my haunches to admire the view of her beautiful body from behind. My palms smoothed along the back of her thighs, thumbs tracing the crescent of her supple flesh. “Let me have you.”

“You are insatiable,” she moaned, biting her bottom lip to stifle the hum of exhilaration when my hand disappeared between her legs. My index finger made slow, lazy circles on her keen little clit. “It will be a miracle if I can walk in a straight line later.”

Resistance is held on by a breakable thread. I gave the middle of my cock a tight squeeze, stroking from root to tip, slow and steady, with naughty thoughts of pounding into her mercilessly.

Christ, I could almost feel her fingernails on my back as I fucked her with abandon, the ribbons of blood on my skin and the guttural cry in my ear.

My rigid body is coated in horripilation. My hair stood upright at the nape of my neck in piloerection, heart on overdrive, beating frantically in my chest.

I might put work in cold storage and sequester in this hotel for the next few weeks, with her in my bed, in my arms, at my mercy, the world outside fading from view and growing dim.

“Brad.” Her needy pussy writhed against the heel of my hand with wretched hip rotations, seeking the warmth of my mouth or the facility of my fingers. “If you keep leaving me…”

“Impossible. I am consumed with thoughts of you,” I reassured her, but the impulse to revert to old habits got progressively worse because negative behaviour patterns never failed to resurface when I am aroused, no matter how hard I tried to taper down the unhealthy relationship I had with sex. “I am crazy about you, Emma.”

Yet, here I am, tempted to push boundaries for a riskier endeavour, for an experience I will regret post-orgasm.

But connecting with her on a meaningful level overshadowed the power of regression.

My heart was heavy. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“I trust you,” she said, and the fact she meant it only exasperated the heart-sinking sense of disappointment. “Do you want to stop?”

Is she off her fucking rocker?

I did the celibacy stint already.

Epididymal hypertension was not all fun and games. I went from daily doses of uncontrollable pleasure to an impulsively issued rehabilitation of sexual abstinence.

No, I did not want to stop. I wanted to savour and enjoy every single second of it.

“I am not done with you,” I growled, rubbing the head of my cock through her slick lips. Her cunt stretched for me to slide home in one smooth yet cautious motion. I carefully eased her to the base of my length, her cheeks to my groin, aptly watching as she swallowed inch after inch. “Fuck, Emma.”

“It’s official.” Her face pressed into the mattress. “Death by monster cock will be on my gravestone.”

“I love a good old massage to the ego.” My eyes ran over her sprawled out body. “But can you refrain from potential disasters and phallus sobriquets? It’s a little off-putting.”

Her throaty moan was an exhilarating blend of pleasure and pain. She bowed her spine without the order of Command, her cheek to the mattress and her arse in the air. An image permanently locked in the back of my mind.

Painfully slow, I pulled out and drove forward, repeating the process at a controlled, unhurried pace to prolong every ounce of pleasure.

I fucked her with a flurry of deep thrusts, hands crushing her narrow waist, hips smacking against her pert arse.

“Please,” she begged, grappling the crimped sheet with all her might. “Oh, God. Brad…”

“I know, Sweetheart.” In a murky haze of disorientation, I let go of her waist and covered her body with my own, chest to her back, lips tasting the sweat on her neck.

Forearms resting on either side of her head, I laced our fingers together and caged her in. I have never moved so closely, intimately and seamlessly against a woman. I always kept a distance. “Emma.” My stomach tensed with each impale of my cock. “You can take it.”

My lips met hers for a bruising kiss. Tasting her soft whimper with my tongue, I palmed her swollen breast, followed its natural curve and twisted the stiff peak of her nipple.

Another ragged groan to herself.

A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. I pressed harder, deeper, the entire length of my shaft sinking into the very depths of insanity.

Maybe I have gone mad.

I was crazy about her, irrational when I saw her and possessive when I thought of her.

“Brad!” Josh’s fist pounded on the interconnecting door. He had the worst timing in bastard history. “Wake up. I need to get out of this room right now.”

“Fuck off, Joslynn.” A low growl rumbled in my throat. “I am busy.”

“Really?” A quiet pause whilst he put an ear to the door to listen. “Doing what?”

My nostrils flared. “None of your business.”

“Do I hear a bedmate?” he asked with a hint of suspicion, and I slipped a hand over Emma’s mouth to smother her strangled moans. “I swear to God, if you got to Carol Anne before I did, I will beat the fucking shit out of you.”

Josh is one of the syndicate’s best marksmen. He is skilled in precision shooting and can blow a man’s brains out before the smouldering heat of blood, flesh and organs bespattered all over the ground had even registered. But he could not punch his way through a paper bag, the puny runt.

I huffed, frustrated. “Do you think that was constructive?”

“Fuck you, Brad. And that traitorous bitch. I practically told her I loved her.” His theatrics went up a notch. “You were it for me, Carol. I’d have put a damn ring on it and married you someday.”

Emma’s eyes rounded in question.

“Ignore him,” I whispered to her lips. “He will get bored eventually.”

“No, I will not get bored eventually.” Josh invited himself into our private conversation. “But I will be penetrated to death if you do not save me from the deranged lesbians! Stay back!” he warned, and I could only imagine what crazy shit took place next door. “I mean it, Patty. I am not playing anymore.”

Josh kvetched about someone calledPedrowhile I breathed open-mouthed kisses on Emma’s shoulder, hips rocking back and forth until next door’s early morning shenanigans drifted into insignificance.

Emma gave me a gentle kiss, once, twice, and then her tongue speared into my mouth.

I groaned loudly, the thick head of my shaft grinding into her. It was too much to bear, her erotic moans and the wild, untamed look in her eyes.

Moving to my knees, I coaxed her onto all fours, latched onto her hips and unleashed months of pent-up frustration.

Her pleasure-filled moans intensified along with her desperation. If I drove any deeper, I would hurt her. So, with that in mind, I controlled the angle, thrust and penetration-the half-in, half-out method. I did not want to curtail her comfort and enjoyment. Or evoke unpleasant memories for her. I am nothim.

“Shit.” Her head threw back, and I had to stop myself from reaching out and wrapping her long, messy hair around my fist. “Big Guy, I need to cum.”

Fuck. I almost lost it. My cock throbbed, pre-cum leaking into her warm flesh.

“Yeah?” Watching her push backwards and forward on my length, I pinched her puckered clit and rubbed, the friction too much for her aching pussy. “And I’m about to fill you with mine.”

Emma’s body wilted. Her cunt, wet and swollen, strangled my cock. I pummelled her at a punishing pace, thrusts becoming erratically uncoordinated the closer I got to orgasm.

Her walls fluttered, squeezing and forcing spurts of hot cum out of me. Bliss had never felt so good.

I respired a long, wearisome breath, then tumbled atop her to come down from the high. I was still reeling from the aftermath of combustion when she wriggled beneath me, trying to escape my clutches.

“I lied,” she croaked, and I panicked, rolling off her body and landing in a disjointed heap on the bed. “Death by suffocation will be chiselled onto my gravestone.”

Panting for breath, I smiled, inching closer to kiss her. “I am not obsessed with you.”

“Same,” Emma lied, blowing out a heavy breath. “I really need to get upstairs and shower.” Her green eyes, framed with inky black lashes, sparkled with unmistakable adoration. “But I also want to stay here with you.”

“I am not going anywhere.” Lifting her hand to my lips, I eyed the bracelet of beaded multicoloured healing stones on her wrist and kissed each of her digits. “You can come to me any time of day or night. I will not stop you.”

“I know,” she whispered, kissing the tip of my nose. “Find me later?”

My nod was perfunctory.

Emma soared from the bed to collect scattered belongings on the floor.

Through hooded eyes, I watched her roam around the room, naked, confident, beautiful and everything I had ever wanted.

Her stare caught mine in the reflection of the vanity mirror, and she smiled shyly, her cheeks dusting red.

No more words spoken.

I pulled on a clean pair of boxer briefs, then stepped behind her to lend a helping hand.

Of course, she did not need me to get dressed, but the voice inside my head insisted that Istart as I mean to go on.

And yet, without direction, she understood more than I did, her arms extending above for me to lower the satin dress over her head and down her body.

I alternately fixed the spaghetti straps on her slender shoulders, then untangled the delicately twisted chains around her neck.

Emma left through the back door moments later, her heeled sandals dangling from her fingers, her bare feet sinking into the wet grass.

I never took my eyes off her until Terrence emerged to escort her to the suite upstairs.

“Brad?” Josh knocked on the door again. “Can I come home now?”

With an eye-roll, I locked the back door and hightailed the barrier between this suite and Mary’s room.

Josh was dishevelled and semi-naked. He sped passed like a flash of lightning before I could even open my mouth and welcome him inside.

He nosedived onto the unmade bed, where the evidence of sex stood out like a sore thumb.

“I don’t care.” He overlooked the pools of my girl’s sweet arousal. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. “We need to get the fuck out of here. I cannot spend another minute in their company. They are crazy, Brad.” His voice broke and burbled. “Fucking mental. And they have the audacity to say we are criminally insane!”

Frowning at the lad’s verbal onslaught, I peered into Mary’s room. Both women lingered by the window, smoking cigarettes in their underwear.

“Good morning, Peasants,” I chimed, and the blonde bombshell flipped me the bird. “That was rude. Do it again. I love snapping the bones of brainless bimbos.”

“Jesus.” Mary yawned like an unbecoming wench. “Who put fifty pence in you?”

Folding my arms, I leaned against the doorframe and winked cheekily at her. “Your sister.”

“Emma came to her senses, then.” Mary wafted cigarette smoke out of her face. “I won’t lie. I am happy for the two of you. But Brad, if you disrespect my baby sister in any way, shape or form, I will cut off your dick with a blunt razor blade and make you choke on it.”

“Whoa!” My chopper shrivelled at the dire thought. “You bastard fruitcake. That was oddly specific.”

“I am just saying,” she said, blowing smoke out the window. “I heard some things…” Her judgemental gaze slid over me. “I know you like her. I know she means something to you. But is she enough to keep you on a tight leash?”

“I see that you are adept in interrogations.” It was not a compliment. “I am not a dog, Mary. I like your sister. But I never signed up for a controlling relationship.” Besides, if Emma had any concerns, she’d have brought them to my attention. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a hyperventilating brother to contend with.”

Mary charged towards me.

I slammed the door in her face.

It flew back open two seconds later.

“Just promise me one thing.” Mary fell into my shadow as I strode across the room. “You will be faithful. You will not cheat on her. You will not break her heart-”

“Seriously? You don’t even know me,” I snarled, and she backed up three steps. “You think you got me all figured out because you read some articles online?”

“I know you.” Her mouth parted in shock. “I grew up with you.”

I am not the boy she remembers. “I was in a serious relationship once. I gave that bitch five years of fidelity. It wasn’t me that tapped out. It was her. She drove a wedge between us and climbed into another man’s bed. Not me. I never so much as looked at another woman inappropriately.” My face was heated with anger. “So what if I slept around since? I was a free man. I committed no crimes…” I do not have to justify myself to this woman. “I like you, Mary. I would not be here otherwise. But you need to back off.”

Mary’s lips thinned. “I only want her to be happy.”

And I will provide happiness in abundance.

“Can you take this pointless argument outside?” Josh complained in the background. “Patty is making eyes at me again. I am still traumatised.”

Espying Patricia by the entryway of the suite, with only straps of silky white lace on her petite body, I shot him a dirty look. “What is wrong with you?”

“I am as rough as ten arseholes.” He star-fished the bed with one arm over his eyes and black boxer briefs pulled up the belly button. “And those two are spinning me the fuck out.”

I blinked rapidly to adjust my vision. “Why do you have a wedgie?”

“To stop those…those kinky bitches from taking advantage of me!” He bolted upright on the bed, keeping a tight grip on the waistband of his boxers. “They tricked me. They offered to have a threesome with me, then invited Pedro over.”

My eyebrows bunched together. “Who the fuck is Pedro?”

“Our friend.” Patty brandished a nine-inch silicone dildo. “I don’t know why his knickers are twisted.”

Mary nodded agreeably, her arms crossing over her chest, supporting the weight of her breasts. “We promised to take it easy on him.”

Josh scoff-choked in utter disbelief. “You can fuck right off.” He jabbed an accusatory finger in Patty’s direction. “And stop looking at my jacksie. It is never going to happen. I am off-limits.”

I whistled a low, extensive tune. “Do I want to know what you plan to do with that rubber mammoth?”

“I wanted to use it on him,” Patty edified the room of listeners, and Josh lunged out of bed, holding his clenched backside as he hobbled to the safest corner of the room. “Oh, calm down. I would have warmed you up first. A bit of lubricant. Two fingers or four.”

Josh slapped a hand over his mouth to suppress a shriek. He was distraught.

I laughed, beyond entertained. “This is getting naughty.”

“Aren’t you an incy wincy bit tempted, Joslynn?” Mary goaded him with playful eyes. “Pedro is experienced. He can work those sphincter muscles real good if you back up on him.”

“I will rip your tongue out,” Josh threatened, deadly serious. “One more word, Mary. I dare you.”

My smile dropped. “He is not joking.”

“You started it,” Mary snapped, and he jerked an uncaring shoulder. “You should have left us alone last night! If you did, none of this would have happened!”

“Are you listening to yourself?” He was seconds away from losing his mind. “You got naked-both of you. You wanted to do something crazy. And that was before we left the room for the sit-down meal. I was happy to go straight to bed last night. It’s not my fault you kept me awake with a full-fledged porno.”

Mary stared deadpan at him. “It’s called sex, you idiot.”

“And you made eyes at me whilst rubbing your…” His blush was a rare sight. “Vulvas together. You wanted me to join in!”

“It was fun.” Mary threw her hands in the air. “Admit it. You enjoyed every minute. You got something out of it, did you not?”

“Yeah, I was having a decent wank until you threw that ginormous fucking headbanger in my face.” He glanced at the dildo and visibly shuddered. “Brad, be fair. Would you let them shove that barbarian up you?”

Most straightforward question of the day. “Absolutely not.”

“See! I am not freaking out for no apparent reason.” He yanked open the bedside drawer to grab rolling papers and a grinder. “Goddammit, I have rights!”

“He is so dramatic.” Patty threw the dildo on the bed, then collapsed across the damp sheets. Her face twisted when she patted one of the wet spots. “Looks like we weren’t the only ones that had fun last night.” Her eyebrows impishly danced. “You know how to drive a girl wild, huh?”

I am not even sure if that’s a serious question. “I know how to make a woman orgasm if that’s what you are asking.”

“Gross.” Mary’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I do not want to know why those sheets are drenched. Or that my sister is having sex.”

“Aren’t you like a pro at female ejaculation?” I asked, the words leaving my mouth impulsively, and the blonde-haired Hulk Lady punched me square in the shoulder with unforeseeable strength and force. “Ouch!” My arm actually throbbed with aftershocks. “What the fuck was that for?”

Josh laughed at my discomfort.

“One more word from you,” I pointed at him, “and I will personally pin you down for those women to use Pedro on you.”

The lad paled in comparison.

I am glad we understand each other.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Emma

After only five minutes of walking through the hotel’s majestic hallways, I can already feel the burn between my thighs.

Shorter steps did not alleviate the agony and the ecstasy of sex. I am achy, sore and waddling like a penguin. Not that I cared. I had one of the best nights of my life.

Terrence is not overly talkative this morning. He looked dispirited and tired, too, with deep-cut furrows of stress on his forehead and dark circles under his unfocused eyes.

“I need a quick shower. An espresso shot or two.” Keys jangling in his clumsy fingers, Terrence unlocked the door to the room directly opposite mine. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Guilt burrowed deeper. I felt sorry for the bodyguard. Terrence was not glued to my hip, but he seldom got five minutes for himself. He worked the maximum weekly hours with no days off or vacations.

I should speak to Big Guy about alternative security. Even if he assigned someone else on weekends, Terrence could catch up on some sleep or spend his free time with dates. I am sure he never signed up for a sex ban when agreeing to the assignment of protecting a certain individual from the threat of stalkers.

Stalker. Singular. Not plural.

A creepy dude who likes to eat takeout food in spider-infested tunnels.

“No, I am okay.” Smiling benignantly at the man, I unzipped the clutch purse and fossicked through random items-cheap cosmetics, loose change and a stick of bubble gum-to find the room key. “Actually, yes. I need to swing by a pharmacy on the way back to London. If that’s okay.”

“I am aware.” A knowing look etched across his face, the key going into the back pocket of his smart trousers for later. “You need the morning-after pill.”

My spine straightened in frozen rigidness. “How do you know?”

A slight smile curved his lips. “For reasons that I cannot disclose.”

“You received a text from Command,” I spoke with mechanical formality, and the bodyguard made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat, which was the only confirmation I required. “So, emergency contraception?”

He hesitated in the hallway. “I can take you after brunch, Miss Emma.”

“Thank you, Terrence.”

Clicking open the door to my room, I headed inside for a hot shower and decent outfit change.

I had barely stepped foot on the vintage-style carpet when something,someone, moved by the window and scared the living daylights out of me.

Fight-or-flight activated. I jumped back, hand slapping over my chest, heart skyrocketing to my throat, when Hugo, wearing yesterday’s suit, white shirt sharply creased and liquor-stained, locked eyes with me from across the room.

“Hugo?” My heart rate doubled in tempo. He should be next door, either sleeping or getting ready for brunch. “Why are you in my room?”

“You disappeared last night. You just vanished into thin air. I have been worried sick,” he chastised with a grim expression. “I roamed the halls and searched the gardens, just in case you decided to go for a random jog. I even asked the main desk to check the surveillance. I thought something bad had happened to you. But I was wrong. You are perfectly fine.” His breaths were heavy and raspy. “A little heads up next time, huh?”

Although I appreciated Hugo’s concern, I never asked him to keep tabs on me. I am a big girl. I can take care of myself.

Furthermore, I had a skilled and powerful bodyguard within reach. I rarely saw him, as he operated stealthily in the background, but he was always there, watching my every move.

Decidedly miffed, I teetered across the room to yank open the floor-to-ceiling curtains, the morning’s soft rays sprinkling light on the old-fashioned furniture. “How did you get in my room?”

Hugo reclined in the high back armchair, his forearms resting on the armrests. “You asked if I would mind the spare key for you last night.”

“Right…” I do not remember such conversations. I had wallowed in the overconsumption of alcohol and jealousy, though, so I will give him the benefit of the doubt. “Well, I am back now. You can leave the key on the dresser. I have to hand it back to the receptionist soon.”

“A simple text would have saved me the sleepless night.” He stood, just as miffed, to watch as I wandered around the room. “Where did you go?”

I left the clutch purse on the bedside table. “Did the surveillance footage not provide the answers?”

“No.” Hugo glared with scathing disapproval. “It would seem that only relative statutory authorities can request surveillance footage. Data protection principles.” His eyes cast to the floor to avoid my gaze whilst he mustered the courage to ask me something. “What happened to your neck, Emma?”

“What do you mean?” My eyes automatically swung to the vanity mirror. Oh. Shit. I modelled a string of hickeys on my throat and chest. I will need a whole stick of concealer to hide those purple blemishes. “I must have gotten carried away last night.”

I was under the man’s sceptical analysis. “You did that to yourself?”

“No, I…” I know he is fishing for information, and the reason behind fact-finding remained a mystery. “I spent the night with Brad.”

“Oh.” Hugo is calm, but a destructible storm brewed in his eyes. “Well, I guess that explains the passion marks.” His jaw muscles throbbed furiously. “I am sorry. I can no longer sit on this.” He strode toward me with long, determined strides. “Brad is not good enough for you. You can do so much better.”

A shaky breath whooshed out of me. “In what sense, if any, is he unworthy of my time?”

“Brad Jones is a serial killer,” he whisper-shouted to place emphasis on the worst-kept secret in criminal history as if I were not privy to the man’s extracurricular activities and violent propensities. “Ask around if you do not believe me. Or better yet, look at the semi-automatic strapped to his ankle.”

“Serial killers pursue a fantasy,” I argued with an arsenal of indignant comebacks. “Brad is motivated by profit, not psychopathy.”

“Do not sugar-coat the severity of his crimes. Jones is hired to kill. He takes the lives of innocent people. And for what? Another car? More suits? Extra money in the bank? Like he is not rich enough.” He scoffed in utter disgust. “How many people must die for his lifestyle to be considered reproachable?”

I hate that Hugo is not wrong.

Brad Jones, for all intents and purposes, is paid extortionately for his loyalty and commitment to the syndicate. His pockets are lined with blood money to carry out murders at the behest of Liam Warren.

Still, I struggled to see Big Guy in a dark light. I defended him, even though it was wrong to do so because I cared about him.

“Brad is not a psychopath,” I spoke softly, not wanting to aggravate Hugo. “I have never witnessed him commit any murders.”

And frankly, I did not want to.

“There is a strong correlation between insanity and homicide.” Hugo’s hands came to my waist in a protective manner, his thumbs pressing down on my ribs. “He is a cold, black-hearted, minacious killer. You are embroiled in the complexities of mob wars and the world of crime, and what’s worse, you are concerningly unfazed by it.” His eyes begged for me to take him seriously. “Get out whilst you still have the chance.”

Listening to the man’s choice of words on repeat inside my head, I narrowed my eyes at him as a thought occurred and festered. “What did you say?”

He blinked owlishly. “Get out whilst you still have the chance.”

“No, before that.” Peeling his fingers down from my waist, I stepped around him to futz with a stack of clean, folded towels on the foot of the bed. “You mentioned the complexities of mob wars.”

“Yes.” Hugo examined the slit in my dress, and my fingers twitched to cover the exhibition of my thigh. “Jones is neck-deep in power struggles and turf disputes. If he is not locked up or shot down in the next six months, I will flash my arse to the whole of London.”

My heart fell to the floor.

Thoughts of Big Guy in prison made me feel sick to my stomach. But the potentiality of his death brought unpreventable tears to my eyes. I had never considered the target on his back. To me, he is strong and unbeatable. He cannot be killed.

“Does awareness help you to understand why I am so distressed?” Hugo’s phone chimed with a text message, not that he bothered to check it. “I will never forgive myself if you are caught in the crossfire of criminal organisations.”

Arguing with him was an exercise in futility. Neither of us would reach an accord. “How do you know there is a feud between gangsters?”

“Seriously?” He gawked at me as though I had recently escaped an alternate universe. Or a psychiatric hospital. I can’t quite decide. “Do you live under a rock? News travels fast in London. Everyone knows that Warren’s in nick for his involvement with The Sicilian Mafia.”

Yet, if I did not know Brad personally to acquire knowledge about the world of organised crime, I would not have the faintest idea of the Cosa Nostra’s relocation to London or that Ignazio Corrazzo waged a brutal war on the syndicate.

It is criminal news, not public knowledge.

If I went online and typed the city’srivalmobstersinto the search bar, I would discover old news articles about the notorious drug baron, Liam Warren.

The Fatal Mistake that Obliterated Warren’s Multi-Billion Pound Empire.

A litany of charges: rape, bribery, extortion, embezzlement, racketeering, aggravated assault, money laundering, first-degree murder, drug trafficking distribution, pimping and pandering. A whole life order for heinous crimes in a maximum-security prison. I am talking about the most collateral consequences of criminal convictions.

But information on the web is unreliable. I will not uncover thetruthor read articles about sanctioned versus unsanctioned hits or the cause of gangland violence in the City of London because the verisimilitude of criminal activities performed by powerful organisations is not an ordinary person’s reality.

As far as Hugo is concerned, I am unmindful of the institution’s trials and tribulations.

Flashing him a brief, friendly smile, I belied apprehensiveness and feigned cluelessness. “The Sicilian Mafia?”

“The Italians are all over Warren Enterprise.” Hugo’s feet took him to the bed, where he sat down and propped his back to the headboard. “The Syndicate will be nothing but smoke and embers. As for The Brotherhood, The Italians will not stop until every chained soldier is buried six feet under, starting with The Elite.” He wanted to smack some sense into me. I could see it. “You will never be safe. Not with him. You cannot lower the risk of collateral damage.” His next words rocked me to the core. “Death by association. Ignazio will kill you to get to him.”

The hair on my body stood on end. “You speak of him as if you know him.”

“Who?” Hugo was genuinely confused. “Oh, Ignazio? You mentioned him earlier. I assumed he was the one in charge.”

No, I did not say Ignazio’s name out loud. I made a conscious effort not to provide any details throughout the conversation because syndicate business is notmybusiness.

Big Guy never asked if he could trust me with his secrets or questioned whether or not I would run to the nearest gossipmonger to whistle-blow.

But the failure of an informal warning does not imply that I can leave the bedroom and take pillow talk with me.

He confided in me and only wanted loyalty and silence in return.

“I scared you.” Hugo is on his feet in a flash, rushing toward me to salvage whatever damage the name-drop might have done to our friendship. “That was not my intention. But Emma, I am really worried about you.” His palms came to my cheeks, and he gently tilted my head for our eyes to align. “I want to get you away from all of this madness.”

I am scared, but not for the reasons he might assume.

Hugo is just your average, everyday guy. He worked in a multinational groceries and general merchandise retailer and resided in a basic, two-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Central London. He lived and died in leather jackets, faded denim jeans and heavy-duty boots. He drove around in an old, rusty pick-up truck, watched Marvel movies and overindulged in sugar confectionery.

Or so I thought until five minutes ago.

Now, I am not sure if I know him at all.

His fascination with true crime is an alarm bell I cannot ignore. It was an obsession, not a hobby. I mean, who, in their right mind, exhausted time and energy on the deep-dive research of possible killers?

“Can we talk about this later?” Rubbing the tingle of goosebumps scattered across my arms, I selected two clean towels and gestured to the en-suite. “I have to shower and be downstairs in thirty minutes. Ben will be on the warpath if I am late.”

“Yes, of course.” Hugo kissed my cheek with a gentle stroke of his lips. It’s not unusual for him to show affection before departure, but this time around, it made my skin crawl. I felt like a traitor. “I will knock on the door soon. A shower first.”

Hugo placed the spare key on the dresser before the room door closed behind him.

I stayed in the middle of the room with ambivalent feelings toward my friend long after his exit. I might be reading too much into things. Hugo is, for lack of a better word, nerdy. He is overly intellectual, bereft of common social skills and obsessed over trivial details. I guess nerdiness explained his persistent preoccupation with criminal cases.

Either that or I have a serious problem on my hands. I will have to tackle the issue tomorrow, though. I have already fallen behind schedule, unshowered, undressed and unpunctual.

There are better ways to start the day.

Twenty-five minutes later, I exited the suite to meet Terrence and Hugo at the end of the hall.

I chose a blush pink, short-sleeved dip hem dress with lace embroidery and peep-toe high heels. I also attacked my neck, throat and chest with much-needed concealer.

Brad will be less than impressed. He wanted everyone to see that a mystery man had sunk his teeth into every slither of exposed flesh.

Descending the bifurcated staircase with two of the most stylish men in tow, I made my way to the function room on the first floor, occasionally stopping for small talk with the debonair employees and the tired-looking wedding guests.

The imposing foyer bustled with activity and liveliness. Friends thanked my older brother, Martin, for a wonderful weekend before they checked out and hauled overstuffed suitcases to the car park adjacent to the hotel.

Only a small group of individuals united by marriage or blood was invited for complimentary champagne (non-alcoholic, of course) and brunch in the ballroom.

“I will be in the bar down the hall, enjoying a nice glass of scotch.” Terrence popped a chewing gum bubble. “Let me know when you are ready to leave.”

Thanking the bodyguard for his unfaltering service, I entered the brightly lit room to the harmonious sound of jazz music and swept my gaze over the long-stretched family table swathed in white cotton.

The ballroom’s aesthetic reminded me of an enchanted fairy-garden-inspired service, with artificial vines, rustic wooden signs, vases of long-stemmed roses, jugs of ice water and flutes of faux-champers.

Almost everyone had arrived and became seated to ingest a plate of continental breakfast.

Benjamin is at the furthest end of the table with his girlfriend, Quinn. It was an intentional move on the chessboard to steer clear of Hamish Hughes.

The self-service counter is spread out evenly on the back wall. I fussed with various types of tongs to stack grilled tomatoes, seasoned mushrooms, crispy bacon and seeded toast onto a clean plate, with the intention of coming back for a second portion.

There was a paucity of sliced avocado, so I reluctantly settled for rocket salad. I loved those nutty, creamy, pear-shaped fruits and would not think twice about clearing the entire serving tray. But I had to consider the other food junkies in the hall.

“That’s a disaster.” Josh, the tall, broad-shouldered syndicate member slash secret assassin, materialised in the form of a tailored God. He had successfully crept up on me with unobtrusive footsteps. “Where are the hash browns? You dare to call rabbit food breakfast.”

I should be accustomed to the stealthiness of killers and predators by now, but I never failed to jump out of my skin when one or the other popped up.

Josh snatched the plate from my hand and stockpiled additional yet unwanted trimmings. “Nobody can eat crispy bacon without runny eggs rich in salt crystals. And what is your problem with sausages?” His brows snapped together in a judgemental scowl. “If you have an issue with cylindrical lengthened meat, then we cannot be friends.”

“Eggs are stomach-turning when hungover.” Now, mind you, I am not as hungover as I probably should be, considering the combination of alcohol I had guzzled down last night. I only had a mild headache. “I can live without sausage.”

“Nonsense.” Josh disregarded me with his flippant click of the tongue. “Runny eggs are the best. How else do you dip those bad boy soldiers? As for the vendetta against sausages?” He waved a chipolata in my face, then bit a chunk off the end. “Internalised misandry comes to mind.”

Contrary to what I feel about Josh and double entendres in the same sentence, I smiled widely, listening to the mellifluous piano music in the background. “Having a small, thin, wobbly sausage is nothing to brag about.”

“Is that right?” Josh futzed around with the salad bowls for the quotidian breakfast routine. “You can be areal dickwhen you are hungry.”

My jaw slackened. “And this entire conversation screamslittle dicksyndrome.”

“Look at you go. One night in the sack with a spicy salami, and you have a degree in sexology.” He buttered a crusty bread roll and packed it with bacon and ketchup. “For your information, I am the proud owner of a schüblig.”

“Lovely.” My face screwed up. “Thanks for the mental image.”

Josh winked at me. “No problem.”

“You can hold onto that plate,” I offered, pouring fresh orange juice into a plastic tumbler to quench my thirst. “I have lost my appetite.”

“More fool you.” He scarfed down a piece of buttery toast and watched fixedly as Carol Anne, the kittenish manager, sauntered across the ballroom with long frolicsome strides and mesmerising hip movements. The skin-tight black dress and six-inch heels only sharpened her beautiful image. “If you shake that arse any harder, I might assume you are into me and pounce.”

The woman paused on the other side of the breakfast bar, with arms akimbo and eyes wide in amusement. “Will you abstain from the natural ability to make women blush?” she asked in a firm voice, but the unmistakable stench of lust betrayed the option to rely on defence mechanisms. “Are you trying to get me fired, Mr Fitzpatrick?”

“What?” Josh gave her a boyish smile, and I melted. He was deceptively cute when he wanted something-or someone. “Hey, I am leaving soon. I will have many regrets if I do not put all my cards on the table.” His bottom lip stuck out. “Is that what you want? To burden me with maybes and what-ifs for the rest of my life?”

Okay. Josh was good. I observed like a dedicated spectator, buying into the innocent flutter of his eyelashes and the slow tongue sweeps to his lower lip.

He stared deep into the poor woman’s soul, knowing damn well she was on the brink of yanking him into a nearby closet and ripping her clothes to tatters.

Carol Anne sighed, rearranging the cutlery stand. “Did you enjoy your stay?”

Josh nodded, humming to Frank Sinatra’s “I won’t Dance” as he tossed cherry tomatoes and salad leaves onto the overstocked plate. “The bed was phenomenal,” he fibbed. “I slept like a baby.”

He is such a liar. I know he got a stiff neck from all that twisting and shoving on the threadbare sofa in Mary’s room.

“I see that we have a Sinatra lover in the building.” She was impressed by the man’s taste in music. “Please, tell me. If you could choose a favourite, just one of his songs, what would it be?”

Josh looked like a deer in headlights. “Is it a dealbreaker?”

“Yes.” Her brow curved in a challenge. “I need to know if those talented fingers have good coordination.”

My mouth hung open.

I do not understand this brand of flirting.

“Who cares about the song?” Josh was the best kind of confident. “You have a professional percussionist close at hand. I make magic with these piano fingers.” A mischievous smirk. “D Major is theinstrumentallevel of expertise. I hit some really deep notes.”

This man is so obsessed with the tasks and responsibilities of the male sex organ I am surprised he leaves the bedroom for anything but copulation.

“Are you sold on baselines?” His smile stretched cockily, whereas her face flushed bright red. I could feel the heat radiating off her body from across the counter. “I am slag for the G clef.”

The sexual innuendos ripped a bubble of laughter out of me. He is quick-witted and unintentionally funny. A divine gift he should never take for granted.

“Let’s Fall in Love.”

Big Guy’s husky whisper came without warning.

Suddenly aware of my let’s-try-and-make-more-of-an-effort appearance, I stand tall, straight and confident, tucking individual strands of hair behind my ears.

Brad’s hand grazed my lower back with feather-light fingertips as he circumnavigated the urge to be himself around me.

In my peripheral vision, he came forward in a royal blue three-piece suit. I swallowed appreciation. It is impossible to look at this man with cold impassiveness, even when obligated to do so. I wanted to go to him, wrap my arms around him and smother him with kisses, but there were eyes and ears everywhere. He belonged to my sister until Monday.

“Joslynn’s favourite Sinatra song,” Brad reminded the receptionist that her question had gone unanswered. “He plays it repeatedly before bed. A hopeless romantic.”

“That’s right.” Josh played along with the white lie, but he sounded disinterested. He was more concerned with how many fluffy pancakes he could get on his plate. “I can sing whilst I pound into you if you want.”

Entertained by the production of come-hither laughs and smiles, I poured a mug of strong coffee and blew over the steamy surface. I wonder how long it takes for Hamish to reprimand all the caffeine lovers in the building.

“Right, I better not regret this.” Carol Anne glanced around the room to make sure nobody was watching or listening. “Meet me in the cleaning cupboard on the second floor in fifteen minutes,” she instructed like an iron lady, and an errant raspberry fell out of Josh’s mouth and landed on the floor with a wet splat. “Do not be late, or I will come back and suffocate you with my pussy.”

The receptionist’s footsteps retreated. I was stunned into silence, as was Josh, who gazed across the breakfast counter in profound discombobulation.

“What in the whoring generation was that?” Josh is having an unexpected confidence predicament. “I have never gone off someone so quickly.”

Brad stole the plate from Josh, helping himself to half-eaten toast. “You might want to freshen up before the wanton feline returns.” His eyebrows waggled naughtily. “Heaven forbid, she strangles you with her pink taco.”

Josh is inured to the saccharine raillery of close friends. “Yeah, I think I changed my mind.” He swiped the coffee mug out of my hand, sipped generously, and then handed it back. “I asked for sex, not oral reciprocation. I have to be really into a woman to cave dive.”

Cave dive, I thought. Is that the slang term for cunnilingus? I will never understand men.

“My mouth is precious.” Josh’s lips pressed firmly together. “Valuable.”

“The only thing of value in this building is me.” Brad’s eyes caught mine across the self-service counter. “Except you, of course.”

I smiled at him.

“That’s a load of tosh. You are a dime in a dozen.” Josh fixed his appearance, tidying up his hair and throwing a slab of chewing gum on his tongue. “I, however, broke records with the female attention I have accumulated this year alone. You, on the other hand…”

I lost concentration when a presentiment of unease prickled at the nape of my neck.

My survival instinct kicked in and told me to look around.

Everything appeared to be normal, people eating, drinking, laughing and joking, but the tingling sensation of being watched had me looking over my shoulder in sheer paranoia.

An unwanted gaze bored into me. I could not see it, but I could feel it. Or I have undiagnosed schizophrenia that should be addressed.

“Good luck with the parents from Hell.” Josh, leaving a trail of partially eaten food on the counter, gave me a pat on the back. “I do not envy you.” His hands moved to my shoulders for a supportive squeeze. “As for me, there is a prime cupboard upstairs with my name on it. I will catch up with you later.”

“He is something else,” I complimented with a dreamy sigh, watching Josh shake hands with some of my brothers. He snuck out of the room, prowling the halls to find Carol Anne. “A pleasure to be around.”

“He is the annoying younger brother that I never asked for.” Big Guy is next to me now. He put his back to the counter, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other grasping a steamy mug of coffee. “Yet, I would die for him to live.”

“Really?” Tapping my lips with a pointer finger, I pretended to think long and hard about everything and nothing. “If an oncoming vehicle approached?”

“I would push him out of the way and take the hit.” He slipped a finger under my chin and turned my face to him, the soft yet demanding touch unleashing butterflies in my stomach. “Does that answer your question?”

A lumppushedinto my throat. “If someone pulled a gun on him?”

“It would not get that far.” He wiped the smug smirk off his face. “I’d have already disarmed the motherfucker and lodged a bullet in his skull.”

I laughed because laughing at someone dying at the hands of an opportunistic sharpshooter is apparently a normal thing for me to do.

“So, Frank Sinatra,” I said teasingly. “I never knew you were a fan. Is it his flirtations with gangsters and women? You do have a lot in common.”

“Have a day off. I am not a gangster, nor do I have numerous affairs.” He downplayed his close connection to prolific criminals and promiscuous women. “I am an astute man in an expensive suit with a penchant for making more money.” His predatory stare roved over my face. “Did I get sidetracked?”

Too weak to resist, I studied his lips with the desire to revisit our kiss. “Only because I dragged you down the rabbit hole of similarities with an unapologetic badass.”

“Dissimilarities.” Big Guy kept an eye on the family table, swigging at the coffee mug thirstily. “I neither like nor dislike Frank.” He was indifferent toward the legend’s gifted musicianship and infamous womanising. “But I have heard the same songs for over a decade, courtesy of my boss. I picked up a line or two along the way.” He inspected the unsuccessfully covered marks on the side of my neck. “You missed one.”

My smile was nothing short of nonchalant. “I look like a harlot.”

“No.” His finger stroke to my palm was foolishly impulsive. “You look like you belong to someone.”

My arms crossed over my chest to politely reject the man’s innocent advances. I had to remind myself that my hawk-eyed father was a stone’s throw away. He did not miss a trick. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to stand this close to you without touching you?”

“You will not hear any protestations or rejections.” He scowled at someone by the family table. “Go raggo.”

I swallowed hard. “And blow Mary’s cover?”

“You don’t actually believe that Hamish bought the fake relationship fiasco, do you?” Turning his face to me, he removed the toothpick from his mouth, the sharpest point indented with teeth marks. “He is not blind. He can see what’s in front of him.”

Hamish would have condemned everyone to eternal damnation if he knew the truth. So yes, I do believe in the obliviousness of actualities.

I chanced to look at the man in question. His head was down. He was too busy earwigging on other people’s conversations to concern himself with the whereabouts of his daughter.

As my stare flickered along the table, inventorying the many faces of hungry individuals, I noticed Hugo scrutinising our interaction with intense concentration.

An eerie sense of foreboding permeated the air. I watched him. He watched me.

My lips unsealed to bring this morning’s bizarre topic of conversation to Big Guy’s attention-just in case Hugo’s fetish for dark-suited gangsters was a noteworthy lesson in trustworthiness or untrustworthiness-when my older sister’s guffawing ricocheted into every alcove.

Mary waltzed into the room like she owned the place. “The fun has arrived!”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Emma

My older sister made a grand entrance, wearing a one-shouldered, sequined bodice, high-waisted, flare-trousered jumpsuit, with hair pinned back in a messy yet sophisticated up-do and slingback stilettos that threatened to snap her ankles. Too much war paint for nude-toned fabrics, scarlet red lipstick and incorrectly applied foundation and bronzer. A stark contrast from yesterday’s light and natural image.

Nonetheless, I admired her beautiful confidence and unflinching bravery. It took a lot of courage for her to walk into this room when the jury was still out on her character. I know she is perturbed by the omniscience and omnipotence of Hamish Hughes.

Patty, with tentative steps and coy smiles, stayed in my sister’s shadow, keeping a respectable distance to repel any suspicion.

God forbid, despite the fact homosexuality is socially acceptable, the opinionated and outspoken commentators in the room unearthed the truth behind their secret romance.

It is the twenty-first century, for goodness sake. Why should Mary and Patty live a lie because they fear judgement? Or, more to the point, why should they pretend to be friends, not lovers, to assuage the anger and disgust of a homophobic bigot?

I never thought I could hate Hamish Hughes any more than I did at that particular moment. He is our father. He is supposed to love us unconditionally, not conditionally, regardless of religion and sexuality-or children born out of wedlock.

A self-involved narcissist is without redeeming qualities. Hamish owned us. He created us. He gave us life so we could serve him with unreciprocated loyalty and undeserving reverence.

And yet, unfortunately for him, the Hughes siblings came into the world with a rebellious streak, defying authorities and traditions for a better tomorrow. That robust assertion is only accurate if you exclude Martin and Miles. My brothers’ loyalty to siblingship has been a bone of contention for many years.

I would like to think stubborn rebelliousness was a gift from our mother, but sadly, Martha Hughes is the antithesis of defiant and obstreperous. A pitiful submissive is more accurate.

“Darling, I have been looking everywhere for you.” Mary threw her arms around Brad’s shoulders, yanking him down for a tight bear hug. He embraced her, chest-to-chest, locking an arm around her middle section. “Where is Hamish?”

His soft, amber-coloured eyes drifted over her shoulder to investigate the matter at hand. “At the table.”

“Great.” Mary’s heeled shoes scraped along the floor as she brushed past him like a breath of fresh air and a fragrance of rose and patchouli. “Is he observant?” For breakfast, she selected a bowl of mixed fruit and a honey-flavoured yoghurt pot. “I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.”

“Yes.” Brad glared at Hamish over the rim of the coffee mug. “If he continues to look at your sister like she is nothing but shit on his shoe, I will take the knife out of his hand and stab him with it.”

A chill skated down my spine.

Brad is right.

I am the cynosure of our father’s watchful eye.

With her back to the others, Mary faced the self-service counter, drizzling a teaspoon of honey onto the colourful fruit assortment. “Ignore him,” she murmured, having perceived the slight tremor in my hands. “He is not worth your tears.”

“Shakiness is not the result of sadness or fear,” I whispered, shooting daggers at our father. “It’s called anger, Mary.”

Patty rubbed the side of my arm to dispel the power of goosebumps. Her sympathetic approach softened the overwrought nerves in my body. I relaxed completely, leaning into the innocuous touch of her hand. “He is trying to get a rise out of you,” she said, a notable scratchiness in the tonality of her nervous voice. “Do not let him win, Em.”

Hamish certainly knew how to provoke a conflict. He relaxed in the chair, staring intently through narrowed eyes, with arms folded over his chest and legs stretched out underneath the table.

Big Guy exhaled a controlled sigh of discontentment.

“Anyway,” I said in a chipper tone to diffuse what could be a difficult situation. “Has anyone tried the cake yet? I heard juice-soaked raisins were mixed into the buttercream.”

Everyone looked askance at me.

I scratched the tickly spot behind my ear, feeling relatively small and insignificant. “I will take that as a no.”

“Nobody cares about the rum-less cake.” My sister sucked fruit-topped yoghurt off the spoon. “My expectations of the family reunion were too high. I thought a gathering with you and our brothers would be the highlight of my year.” Her crestfallen eyes cast to the unmanned stage, where an abandoned audio system played incidental jazz music. “But I guess certain relatives are incapable of being themselves when in public. Miles has barely said two words to me since I arrived. And Martin, when I have managed to corner him, insists that we will catch up later when he is less busy.”

“Martin and Miles have pretty much avoided me, too.” Not that I truly troubled myself with sibling rejection. Ben is the only brother I have ever needed. “If it makes you feel any better, I do not think standoffishness is personal. I mean, look at them, falling over themselves to be highly praised by our father.”

Martin’s hand is on Hamish’s shoulder. He placed a bowl of exotic fruit down on the table. A cup of tea and a doting smile followed.

“It is quite sad when you think about it.” I sympathised with Martin, for he wanted nothing more than to be loved and respected by Hamish. “Our brothers know Hamish is not programmed to bestow paternal love, yet they crave it anyway. Every son needs a father, right?”

Brad gazed at the table with an unreadable expression.

I tapped his elbow. “What is it?”

“What?” His eyebrows knitted in a momentary pause of incomprehension. “Oh, nothing.” He coughed to clear his throat, then forced a smile on his face. “Mormon weddings are shockingly shit. If we ever get married, like the whole fucking shebang, I am hiring Alexa to assist with planning and management. I have no faith in conservative evangelicals. Religious folks do everything arse-backwards.”

“Hey!” Mary aimed the yoghurt-coated spoon at him. “Are you forgetting that I am a reputable fashionista? I design clothing, accessories and footwear for a living. Thank you very much, but I can brainstorm style ideas without organisational assistance.” My sister nudged me in the hip with her elbow. “Tell him, Em.”

Joke or not, I was still reeling from the potentiality of wedding bells. I know Big Guy is fully committed to me, but does he genuinely believe–at such an early stage in our relationship–that I am the one he is destined to grow old with.

Brad left the empty coffee mug on the counter. “I do not feel it.”

I frowned at him. “Feel what?”

“Undying love.” He watched Martin and Judith like a hawk. “I have pinpointed numerous red flags since Friday. I do not see a happy couple.”

Martin is supposed to be attached to the new bride, pandering to her every whim like an honourable gentleman with incurable lovesickness; however, Judith is left unattended at the table whilst he is committed to family duties. Miles’ company is more important. “What do you see?”

“Marriage of convenience.” Brad was unapologetically straightforward. “An impending divorce.” His lips pouted in contemplation. “A fucking disaster.”

“Oh, I am with you on that one.” Mary scarfed down fresh raspberries aplenty. “Do you want to know a secret?”

Everyone awaited the big reveal with bated breath.

“According to the auburn-haired bridesmaid, who likes to tittle-tattle during happy hour in the ladies’ room,” Mary mastered the skill of a ventriloquist, “Martin is having a passionate love affair.”

I gasped in horror, slapping a hand to my mouth. “You are joking.”

“I wish I was joking.” My sister sucked raspberry juice off her thumb. “Martin’s extramarital relationship is proof the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It would seem that our brother is more like our father than any other member of our family. We all know that son of a bitch failed to keep it in his trousers.”

Forget about Hamish, The Serial Cheat. I am more concerned about my brother’s disastrous misjudgment and marital instability. “But Martin exchanged vows. He made a promise.”

“Right?” Mary huffed in disappointment. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

The paradox of cheating is a painful betrayal I never want to encounter. “Who is this other woman?”

Mary pointed at Judith’s maid of honour. Martin’s fair-haired, blue-eyed mistress, wearing a peach-hued dress with embellished flowers, is the same disgraceful wench the bride had appointed as the most important bridesmaid of the wedding ceremony. And, as if her shit did not stink of sulphur and mendacity, she had the nerve to undress the newly wedded husband with covetous eyes in front of his wife!

Okay, that was a mouthful.

I need to simmer down before I pop a blood vessel.

“This is not okay.” A split second later, I deduced that Judith had the right to know about her husband’s unjustifiable unfaithfulness. To Hell with sibling loyalty. I am on her side. “I want to go over there and kick the little homewrecker.”

Brad sent me a sidelong glance of ineffable wonder. “It takes two to tango.”

“I plan to kick Martin in the process,” I riposted, and his eyes rolled in disbelief. “Do not look at me like I am unreasonable.” His exasperation was a sign of a breaking point. “Are you a sympathiser?”

“Sympathiser?” Brad snorted in amusement. “Have a day off. I despise cheaters. The little homewrecker deserves everything that’s coming for her.” His eyes lowered to my abdomen when the unmistakable sound of grumbling found an excruciatingly embarrassing path to his ears. “You should probably take care of that before anger spirals out of control and you threaten to eat everybody.”

I have plenty of time to line my stomach.

“Pay attention.” Mary’s fingers clicked in my face. “Judith knows.”

I gasped again, loud, dramatic and necessary. “No.”

“Yes,” she pronounced clearly, just in case the shock of the newlyweds moonlighting for rampant adultery had rendered me speechless. Elucidation was the only solution to pull me out of the murky fog. I had to blink myself back to the present. “You haven’t heard the best.”

My heart, I am sure, is on the verge of collapse. “There is more?”

“The bride is not innocent, either,” she reeled off a series of secrets and scandals amongst family and friends. “Judith is undeniably in love with her husband’s brother.”

It took ten whole seconds for me to do the maths. “Miles!”

“Shh!” Mary pressed a finger over my lips. “And yes, Martin is aware.”

I am scared to ask more questions. “What about Thalia?”

Mary had that knowing twinkle in her eyes.

“Let me guess: Thalia is aware,” I mimicked her level of gossiping. “This is some swinger shit.”

Brad choked out a laugh. “Do you want to get into the swing of things, Sweetheart?”

“You could not pay me to share you with anyone,” I said, and I meant it, which he seemed to appreciate, judging by the rarity of his pleased smile. “Why the illusion of love and togetherness? Seriously, why did we all agree to attend a sham wedding?”

“Well, on the face of it, everyone is in love with their rightful partners.” Mary studied the table of fakeness. “Remember Finster?”

Ignore her. She might forget. Or faint.

“Come on, Em.” My sister’s eyes bored into the side of my face with investigational intent. “You remember Finley Gibbs.”

Yes, because she felt the need to evoke memories of an outrageous conversation I once had with our mother regarding the stability of a trainee dentist every time our parents’ cognitive process resurfaced.

“Wait…” Big Guy chose to insert himself at the awkwardest of moments. “Gibbs? As in, Fletcher Gibbs, the owner of that old shoe factory down in Armley?”

Please, I will die.

“That’s the badger!” Mary’s excitement should take a back seat during uncomfortable situations. “You might not remember the kids because you checked out early, but the youngest boy had a massive crush on Emma. I think they might have dated for a while…”

“No.” A chocolate milkshake is hardly a dating experience. “Mary, I talked to you about this already.” In other words, know when to shut the fuck up. “It was one date. The two of us only attended that stupid diner out of obligation to those God-awful people I used to call parents. Hamish was dabbling in arranged marriages…” The penny dropped along with my jaw. “That’s why he paid for the wedding,” I whispered, albeit loudly, as the revelation dawned upon me. “He forced Martin to marry Judith.”

“Which explains why two unhappy parties sneak in and out of each other’s beds.” Mary popped a cherry in her mouth. “And that holier-than-thou bunch think that we have problems.”

I laughed with a mixture of humour and distress. “Maybe we are not so bad after all.”

Mary winked, then ate the sumptuous breakfast by the self-service counter with Patty, who, bless her heart, stayed quiet whilst two sisters caught up over a barrel of family scandals.

“So…” Big Guy rested an elbow on the counter, his body turning fully to level me with a mien of playful devilishness. “Finley Gibbs?”

My cheeks flamed hot. “Do not pretend you know him.”

“Correct. I only remember the tall, lanky, scrawny, bespectacled, pimple-faced father. Although, I am curious. Did his son inherit any of his physical traits?” He was smiling. I did not need to look at him for confirmation. “Hey, I am not judging you. If tall, lanky–”

“Scrawny, bespectacled and pimple-faced,” I finished the sentence for him. “Point taken. I got the picture.” When I plucked up the courage to meet his eyes, I found it too difficult to swallow, to breathe for even one second. He is positively the most beautiful man I have ever met. And I get to call him mine. “You look really handsome this morning, by the way.”

“As opposed to every other morning?” Big Guy never failed to hide bashfulness and adopt vaingloriousness. I have learned that a state of emotional exposure is one of his greatest fears. A metaphorical mask he wore daily to hide his true personality. “I am the embodiment of handsomeness.”

Yes, but when out of the public eye, he is kind, humble, thoughtful, respectful, trustworthy, accountable and, dare I say, vulnerable. “And very egotistical.”

“Absorbed in oneself? You are brutal.” He smirked unabashedly. “Would you have me any other way?”

“No, I love the self-assertive personage,” I said with earnestness, and the way he looked at me as if I were light to his darkness, I felt it in my soul. “It’s what makes you unique.”

Big Guy needed a reminder of the other people in the room. Never one to fear eye contact, he gently pushed away from the counter, rose to his full height and paused right in front of me.

Hyper-focused on the erraticness of my heartbeat to notice the world around us blur into nothingness. I saw nothing except him.

Drawing in a shuddered breath, I wondered what he might say next when his hand suddenly warmed my cheek, his thumb drawing an imaginary line along the ridge of my nose to the bow of my upper lip.

It is no surprise I veered off course when the scent of masculine cologne impaired faculties and the manipulation of his dark eyes provoked inhibitions.

Our lips nearly touched.

“Could you be more obvious?” Mary forestalled the reacquaintance of our lips. “A blind person could see the sexual tension.”

Big Guy glared like a predator to prey, a savage glint in his heavy-lidded eyes. He licked a slow, tortuous path across his bottom lip as if to get a taste of our almost-kiss.

I wanted him.

“Emma.” Patty tugged on my hand forcefully. “Jump his bones later. We have an audience.”

If self-restraint is compromised in the proximity of raw masculinity, I must remove myself from the likelihood of self-inflicted mortification. “I should eat.”

Yet, I left the breakfast bar in a flustered rush, shivering uncontrollably, without a morsel of food.

Damnit. I have to go back.

Big Guy, ever so thoughtful, passed me a plate of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and smashed avocado on toast, then walked alongside Mary to the long-stretched table of overlapping chatter and frenzied laughter.

The chink of silverware on dinnerware echoed through the function room. I stayed put, the plate of mouth-watering deliciousness in hand, willing myself to get a grip on life.

One foot in front of the other, I bridged the gap between the waiters and the guests and took the seat reserved for me next to Hugo. Picking up a fork and delving into breakfast with gusto, I did not blink when Brad grabbed the empty chair to my right, as I had suspected his nearness and attentiveness. It’s not like Mary is left out in the cold. I know she will fall onto his lap to prove a point to our father if need be.

Brunch transpired with food galore and idle conversations that induced ennui. I tried to fantasise about Hamish Hughes’ non-existence, but the man’s boastful pretence and uncompromising attitude penetrated every atom and molecule in my body. He was unspeakably impolite to Judith’s parents. And Martin allowed it because my older brother is an arrant coward-too afraid of his father to stand up for his wife’s family.

It left a bitter taste in my mouth.

My mother was a different story.

Martha, with the ruddiest face, sat at the table, drab in unflattering clothes that buried her fragile bones. Mushroom hash with poached eggs went untouched for minutes on end. Her eyes were devoid of emotion. Numb is the only word to describe her.

“Benjamin.” Hamish’s husky voice snapped me out of my harmless reverie. “I heard you lost the cafe.”

My twin’s eyes jerked up into the air. He was in the process of knifing through a bacon cob, but fuelling his stomach is an afterthought now. He ditched the plate and reclined in the chair, mentally preparing himself for the predictability of our father’s imperious authority. “What about it?”

“Why?” Hamish’s fingers curled around the jug’s handle to pour ice water into an empty glass. “Did you get bored?”

“I am a chef by passion, not trade.” Ben lookedboredby simply looking at him. “The cafe was in a state of impending collapse. I had to sell up and go out of business.”

“That bad, huh?” Big Guy, sipping strong black coffee, is unflappable in the company of puerile pretentiousness. “You could have asked me.”

My twin laughed softly, with a countenance of a lost person. “Asked you what?”

“Temporary measures to tackle financial obligations.” Brad noticed that Benjamin’s confusion required a different approach. “Alternative forms of finance to avoid insolvency.”

“My son is not a charity case, Mr Jones.” Hamish’s lecture began with gentle admonitions. “Benjamin can take care of himself.”

Brad’s head tilted to listen, but he would not give Hamish the satisfaction of a steady, intense look. “Who mentioned charity?

My father blew out a measured breath. “You insinuated it.”

“Generosity is a character trait I never quite learnt.” Brad’s tense jaw muscles relaxed after ten breath-holding seconds. “I offered your son an investment, which is the opposite of philanthropy, as I would expect an annual percentage of the business.”

“An investment agreement would be mutually stultifying.” Hamish clicked down the waitress and gestured to the dinner plates, which she whisked away and replaced with clean glasses for orange juice refills. “You should never mix friendship with business or, in this case, family. Correct me if I am wrong, but you are in bed with his sister.” He would not acknowledge my sister-his daughter-by name. “Of course, I do not need to specify which one.”

My heartbeat fastened.

Why did that statement sound like an accusation?

There was an intentional cessation of discussion whilst both men sent death glares to each other. Even though the striking absence of noise robbed everyone of the ability to speak, the accusatory remark produced the same effect as fingernails on a chalkboard.

It was deafening.

Hamish stared stonily at the man to my right. “How did you two meet?”

“Long story short.” Brad took the reins and led Hamish down a convoluted path of bizarre fabrications. “We crossed paths in frightful conditions. I thought she was stark raving mad and concluded that I should avoid her at all costs.” His arm draped across the back of Mary’s chair. “But it’s not every day that a wild yet beautiful woman storms into your life and dumps a gallon of dirty water all over you. I might have gone against everything I believed in to see her again.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Emma

My throat tightened.

Big Guy was talking about us.

“I would expect nothing less from the family’s crazy lady.” Miles smiled proudly at our sister. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing too drastic.” Mary downplayed inherited craziness and adhered to the unwritten rules of white lies. “I spilt chardonnay all over the man’s designer trousers. He was furious.”

Yes, but the designer trousers were the least of his worries. He was more concerned with the potential dog excrement on his face.

“However, due to unforeseen circumstances, I was forced to tolerate her for a very long period of time.” He omitted the bad decisions that precipitated unpaid hours of community service in the same alley as the cafe where I worked and resided. “Stockholm Syndrome, anyone?”

A chorus of hearty laughter followed.

“It was love at first sight, and you know it.” Mary rubbed Brad’s thigh under the table. “How is pregnancy treating you, Quinn?”

A slight smile played on my friend’s mouth. “Overrated.”

“Pregnancy is a gift from God.” Hamish’s stern voice echoed in my mind. “It’s nice to see that loan parenthood is not an issue.” He took a dig at me. “Perhaps you would both like to visit once the baby is born.”

I was hurt deeply by my father’s comment. He has never made an effort to see my son, to pick up the phone and call him or even send him a birthday card. He hasn’t even acknowledged his disappearance.

“Respectfully, no,” Benjamin declined Hamish’s offer to visit with a glare of sheer disrespect. “No offence, old man, but you do not have a good track record with grandkids. You might wake up one day and decide to disown my kid for merely existing.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” Hamish’s eyes, cold with contempt, bounced from me to my twin. “I don’t have any other grandchildren to compare.”

Tears pricked my eyes.

“Who wants more orange juice?” Martin, awkward and gawkish when under pressure, shot out of the seat like a bolt of lightning, fussing with jugs, mugs and anything else he could get his hands on. “There is never a dull moment with a dose of Vitamin C. Here you go, Emma.” He splashed orange liquid into my glass with flinty-eyed clumsiness. “Hey, how is that university course looking?”

“University.” My mother’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “What is the purpose of this study?”

“Communication and media studies,” I said, furtively wiping a tear from under my eye. “It’s not set in stone yet. I was just playing with ideas.”

“Emma has the attributes of a great photographer,” Benjamin explained, and everyone trapped me in their sights as if my cheeks could not get any hotter. He studied me for a beat longer, beaming with pride. “A picture paints a thousand words, right?”

My soft gaze thanked him for the intercedence. A diversion from the topic is all it took for tears to subside. Getting through the rest of brunch without crying in my father’s presence will be a miracle.

A team of waiters cleared the table, replacing dinnerware with flutes of non-alcoholic champagne and miniature iced cakes with edible flowers.

I was in the middle of knifing through an ombré layered cupcake when Big Guy’s hand found my knee underneath the table. Then, slowly, almost tortuously, his ring-laden fingers coasted the mere skin of my inner thigh.

My breath abandoned me.

Peacefulness amongst the Hughes family lulled me into a false sense of security. I allowed his crafty behaviour to go unnoticed because the shiver of happiness I felt outweighed the state of being sensible.

My frozen stare lowered to my lap, where Big Guy’s large hand rested on my thigh. The onyx bead bracelet is clasped to his wrist, and I wondered if he’d worn it every day since the night I gave it to him or if he’d only recently decided to match it with his attire.

“I hate your father,” he said too quietly for anyone else to overhear. “His truculent asperity is ruffling the wrong feathers.” His finger tapped my thigh rapidly to ease feelings of irritation. “I am not as patient as the others.”

I had to quell the morass of disputes before the family brunch was marked by violent controversy. “Ignore him,” I whispered, and he tsked in disapproval. “Martin is already walking on eggshells, trying to keep the peace.”

Mary chuckled in the background.

“I will not be the reason for my brother’s despondency.” With a quick sip of faux champers, I nibbled on a piece of richly flavoured cake. “You understand.”

“No, I do not understand, actually,” he argued logically rather than emotionally. “You know, I have many questions about this weekend, but the one that sticks out the most is your father’s attendance. I find it completely unfathomable that anyone would invite him to family gatherings.”

How could I argue with facts?

“He does not deserve to be here.” His eyes toggled between amatory and mischievous. “Just say the word, Sweetheart.”

I felt a wave of queasiness. “What do you propose?”

“I can wipe him off the face of the earth,” he said darkly, and I regarded him with a gasp of horror. “I am not joking, Emma.”

“I know.” Hence the blow of ominousness threw me off balance. “No, I do not want the unspeakable on my conscience.” At least, I think that’s the correct answer. It would be morally discreditable and downright unforgivable to tell everyone how I really felt. “Let’s save threats for the malefactors of the world, shall we?”

Big Guy shot me a double-take. “You are too nice for your own good.”

“By sparing someone’s life?”

“By letting people trample all over you.”

God, he is impossible. Not everyone is born to be a hitman with psychotic tendencies. I would probably never sleep again if the syndicate carried out my father’s murder.

“I would never!” Mary is embroiled in light-hearted banter with Benjamin. “You only know what you think you know, brother. Tell him, Patty.”

“Enough.” Hamish’s mug slammed on the table dissonantly, spilling hot tea over his rigid fingers. “You continue to make a mockery out of this family.” He pointed a contumelious finger at my sister. “I never stood for it then. I will not stand for it now.”

Everyone sat around the table in stunned silence. I, on the other hand, predicted this problem long before it rose to the surface because it would be uncharacteristic for this unbearable man to sit with his so-called children and not lose his cool.

Mary glared at our father like she wanted to peel the skin off his bones. “Are you talking to me?” she queried frostily, and I knew the second his hand on the table curled into a tight fist, family brunch would turn into a bloodbath. “Only, I do not remember asking for your opinion on how I should hold myself in public. You lost the right of a parental advisor when you denied me the love of a father.”

Martin’s elbows leaned onto the table, his mouth concealed behind clasped hands. “Can we not do this today?” His eyes homed in on our sister. “Please, Mary. I can only tolerate so much.”

“I am not to blame for his belligerence.” Mary gesticulated frantically toward our father. “Do not come at me, Martin. I have been on my best behaviour. It’s him that needs to hear the riot act.”

My mother, with a worried wrinkle between her brows, is ramrod-straight in the chair. I could see that she wanted to intervene before the argument escalated, but the fear of what her husband might say or do if she stepped out of line had her by the tongue.

“Do you consider me foolish?” Hamish’s deep baritone voice thundered into every stained-glass alcove. “I recognise the eyes of a sinner.” Then, with an expression of haughty disdain, the accusatory finger-pointing diverted to Patricia. “You are the one that led my daughter astray.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you are talking about.” Patty is in a state of paralysing surprise. “Mary is my friend. I only met her last year-”

“Horse shit.” Hamish is unapologetic about Patty’s exposure to public humiliation. “Mary did a moonlight flit when I got to the bottom of her mental impairment. She was unwell. She needed help,” he strictly stated, short and precise. “A Serpent’s hiss of temptation convinced her that homosexuality is an innate dimension of personality instead. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” He gave Patty a reproachful glare, so much blame in his hard eyes, then steered his attention to my sister. “Your body is nothing but a conduit for the demonic. You are possessed by the Devil.”

Mary swallowed audibly.

“You bring this filth to my son’s wedding. You would do this to your own brother.” Hamish eyed three people: Brad, Mary and Patty. “Is this a polyamorous relationship? Edify us.”

My sister adopted courage, her chin lifting with pride. “I do not have to explain myself to you.”

My father’s face was puce with anger. “Polyamory is a sin.”

“Open relationships with multiple partners is a matter of preference.” Brad defended my sister’s right to live a carefree life. “And it is socially acceptable.”

“It’s a sin,” Hamish repeated savagely as if each punctuated syllable would drive the message home. “Your behaviour is contrary to God’s Will.”

“And a marriage of convenience is not?” Brad unhesitatingly broke the confidentiality agreement, letting the entire table know we were privy to the skeletons in their closets. “Question: is monogamy the standard doctrine for Latter-day Saints and the Practice of Plural marriage? And, for argument’s sake, let’s say Mormons are found guilty of committing adultery. Are they, as a result, admonished to repent, or do they face immediate disfellowshipment?”

I sucked in a breath of dread.

Hamish is perfectly composed. “Did I hear an accusation?”

“Yes.” Big Guy is uncompromisingly forthright. “Alcohol is prohibited. Yet, I can smell last night’s whiskey on your breath from here. You are not allowed to engage in women outside of your marriage.” He paused for ominous suspense. “But you have spent more time with whores than you have your wife.” His folded arms leaned onto the table so he was at eye level with my father. “Practice what you preach, you fucking hypocrite.”

“Brad!” Miles scolded, not that anything could pout a chink in Big Guy’s armour. “Know your place, or I will-”

“You will, what?” Mary argued with our brother. “Do not threaten someone for telling the truth!”

Martin’s hand slammed down on the table. “Lashing out will only make the situation worse!” He and Miles shared a commonality in terms of struggling with the issues of Brad and Mary. “I think you should leave the table to cool off. We can talk later.”

“Oh, so I have to distance myself from the family because that vile piece of shit is allowed to get away with fucking murder!” My sister is becoming angrier with each passing second. “I will not be villainised!”

The explosive argument escalated significantly, with an onslaught of madness and lunacy. Emotional turmoil completely snapped the frayed bonds that once held our family together, and it was utterly devastating. I wanted to take my siblings to a safe place and get them away from our toxic father once and for all.

“Absolution will never belong to you!” Hamish spat, the vicious storm in his eyes reserved for his eldest daughter. “Not as long as I am alive.”

“And what about you?” Mary screamed at him from across the table, her throat thick and raspy. “You are no closer to absolution than I am!” She fought valiantly until the bitter end. “You disavowed the duties as a father. That, in itself, is unforgivable!”

My father lunged out of his seat, the chair crashing on the floor on impact. He was going to kill my sister. I could see it in his eyes. But the strong, unyielding grip of my mother’s hand on his wrist thwarted the attempt of an attack.

“Hamish, please.” Martha peered up at him in glassy-eyed desperation. “Mary is still my little girl, and I will…” Her body and lips quivered as she mustered the strength to give him a piece of her mind. “I will not stand back and watch her suffer anymore. You have done enough.”

Hamish glared down his nose at our mother. His hand curled into a fist. I know the signs of domestic violence because I grew up in a household where cries of pain whispered through the halls alongside the unforgettable lash of a belt to flesh. He was going to hurt her. Punish her for disobedience, for speaking without permission and, in his eyes, for embarrassing him in front of other people.

I pushed to my feet. “No.”

His sharp, angry eyes landed on me.

“If you lay one finger on my mother,” I warned him, knowing I could never take him, but that would not stop me. “If you put one more bruise on her face, I will have you sent to eternal damnation.”

He stared right through me.

“Nought lies beyond your grave but a gulph of devouring flames,” I quoted Matthew Gregory Lewis. It’s one of my father’s many favourites. “Open your eyes, Dad.” With that, he looked around the table to see all of his children–no longer small and timid–stood tall, with their heads held high, together, in a united front. “We are not afraid of you anymore.”

“Of course, it would be you to speak out of turn.” Hamish ripped his arm out of Martha’s clutches, and she recoiled in the chair, preparing herself for a backhander. “Your actions have always aligned with your words, Emma.”

Martin’s hands raised warily to demonstrate to our father that he meant no harm. “Can we take a moment to calm down?”

“Silence,” Hamish berated, and my older brother’s lips smacked together. Luckily, Judith, the wife of convenience, is here to rub his back comfortingly. “You were thrown into the gutter for a reason.”

My shoulders squared.

“Yet, here she is.” Hamish’s eyes swept over me in disapproval. “An unwanted presence in tawdry clothes.” He was hyper-aggressive and prepared to take me by the jugular. “And thus the augury was true.”

I felt something warm and wet slide down my cheek.

“You are yet to be married.” Hamish stood there, smug and superior, hands in his trouser pockets. “And where is that child of yours? Oh, I remember.” A vein throbbed in his neck. “You lost the pitiful bastard to a band of fucking paedophiles!”

Benjamin lunged across the table, knocking over everything and everyone in sight to get to our father. It all happened so quickly. I went from standing to lying in a bed of shattered glass within a matter of seconds. Men shouted. Women cried. Furniture capsized and dispersed across the floor.

Swept up in the tragedy of our tears, I forced myself onto all fours, shards of glass nicking the palms of my hands, when Terrence, the supererogatory hero slash devoted bodyguard, took charge and encouraged me to stand. He was gone just as quickly, throwing himself into the violent brawl.

Through blurry eyes, I watched Martin drag Benjamin out of the mob of rowdiness, pleading with him to take a breather and calm down. But my twin was too far gone. He wanted blood. Our father’s blood. And he would stop at nothing until red stained the floor. If not for me, then for Carter. He, too, felt the unforgivable strike of Hamish’s cruelty.

“Mark my fucking words,” Big Guy threatened, and I belatedly noticed his dishevelled image. His shirt was ruffled and missing three buttons. His hair was loose, strands irritating his eyes. “I am coming for you.”

Hamish picked himself off the floor, dabbing the trickle of blood by the corner of his mouth. He almost replied, with something snarky, I am sure, but I became the focal point of hostility once more. Only this time, when his tongue was unleashed to stamp all over my dignity and tear my soul into pieces, I backed away from the commotion, pushed through the heavy double doors, and dashed down the hallway.

Hopping out of the stilettos, I left them in the foyer somewhere and ran full pelt into the cold, mist-burdened garden. I forgot how much I needed the wind on my face, the air in my lungs and the burn in my calves. It was an escape, the best form of therapy.

It was sunny earlier, but not anymore. The skies heard everyone’s cries and wept in sympathy.

Huge, fat droplets sprinkled on my face as I dragged my bare feet through the wet grass.

I stopped and burst into tears when the large duck pond came into view. I hated myself for crying, for letting my father get to me, but the image of my son and paedophiles poisoned my mind so toxically and painfully that I could hear him crying for me to save him. And it hurts. It killed me. It brought back months and months of pain and suffering, the physical discomfort and emotional distress that I fought so hard to overcome.

On the brink of hyperventilating, I kneeled by the pond and clung to the moss-covered bricks as if the wall had the power to prevent collapse.

My tears poured into the still, calm water, creating soft, delicate ripples, starkly contrasting how I truly felt. I was anything but calm. Hysterical is more apt.

“Emma.” Mary’s hand rubbed my back as she kneeled on the floor next to me. “Are you okay?” My older sister is the strong sibling, the fierce one, inside and out. She is not one to show her emotions, to cry in front of people, or exhibit vulnerability. Yet, I heard the devastation in her husky voice. “That was a stupid question. Of course, you are not okay. Nothing about Hamish’s abominable behaviour is okay.”

“I hate him,” I cried through intervals of tears and hysteria. “I hate him so much. He mentioned my son.” My voice broke into a throaty whisper. “My baby boy.”

“Shh.” Her arms enveloped my body, holding me for a tight hug. “It’s okay. We are going to get through this. I promise.”

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see my twin in the background. He stayed back for a couple of seconds to let two sisters have alone time, but when our eyes, plagued by desperation and longing, connected, he prowled forward, lifted me into his arms and held me as if he would die without me.

I suppose, in a way, we did not know life without each other. It showed, every time one or the other hurt, how much the smallest token of love could stitch the wounds of our broken hearts.

“Never again,” he said angrily, his fingers tousled in my hair, his arm locked tightly around my waist. “You will never have to see that man again.”

Martin and Miles slowly walked toward us. I did not need to alert Benjamin of their arrival. He sensed it, the stench of cowardice. He left a kiss on my cheek, tucked me behind him protectively and turned to face them.

“Leave,” Benjamin demanded, but our brothers would not buckle easily. “You have proven time and time again that we do not matter. Go back to the lousy fucking scumbag that you call father. We do not need you. We have never needed you.”

Mary grabbed my hand, interlacing our fingers.

Our sister picked a side.

With us.

“You are angry.” Miles is wary of his younger brother’s reaction. “You have every right to be upset…” My older brother grimaced in dismay. “But we are not the bad guys here. You cannot hold us accountable for Hamish’s bad temper. Our only crime is trying to mend this broken family.”

“Yeah?” Benjamin speared a hand through his dark hair. “Well, you got a funny way of showing it, Miles.”

When Martin stepped closer, Benjamin seized up, his body pulled tight, fingers curling and flexing as if to prime himself for another fight.

“Jesus, Ben.” Martin stared like he did not recognise us. “I am your brother, for fuck’s sake.”

“Fuck you. You never cared about us.” My twin shook with rage and adrenaline. “Hamish would not be here today if you did.”

Martin’s mouth parted to speak, but Miles beat him to it. “Consider our mother,” he said, and Benjamin’s eyebrows curved inward. “She is the only reason why I visit the family home every week.”

“And I still attend church on Sundays.” Martin brushed fragments of this morning’s breakfast off his white shirt. He was covered in food, flakey pastry and toasted breadcrumbs. “Hell, Martha is the reason for everything.”

“And Judith?” I asked, wanting some form of clarity. “You clearly do not love that woman, but you married her to keep Hamish sweet.”

“I do a lot of shit to keep that son of a bitch happy.” My older brother had tears in his eyes. “You don’t get it, do you? Mary ran away. You and Benjamin got out.” He glanced at Miles and smiled flatly. “We are all she had left.”

“It hasn’t been easy for us, either.” Miles scuffed a pebble under his shoe. “Hamish is in the driving seat. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. But I am okay with that if it ensures our mother’s safety.”

Hamish sabotaged our relationships. He is the catalyst of sibling estrangement and animosities. “I am sorry-”

“Do not apologise to them!” Benjamin shot me a murderous glare. “It’s him that needs to say sorry. I don’t care what the fuck he’s been through. You lost a son.”

A lump got stuck in my throat.

“Ben is right.” Martin nodded, tears threatening to spill from his red-rimmed eyes. “I am your older brother. I am supposed to protect you. All of you. And Carter….” His lips pinched tight. “I let you down.”

“We both did.” Miles rubbed under his eyes to remove moisture. “I didn’t know how bad it was…I should have known.” His downcast stare briefly visited the stormy sky. “I should have been there for you.”

“You think?” Benjamin, with outstretched arms and long, powerful strides, squared up to them, and I panicked, chasing behind him like a blubbering mess. He will never forgive himself if he gets into a scrap with our brothers. He idolised them. He loved them. He does not want to hurt them. He is just upset. “What, it took public humiliation and the girls being in tears for you both to man the fuck up?” He shoved Miles in the chest, nearly sending him into a garden of flowers. “Fuck you, Miles!”

“I know.” Miles might be the older sibling, but he never stood a chance against Benjamin. And he knew it. He knew with every blink, jerk and flinch, that he could not take him. “I won’t argue with you, Ben.” He trudged across the grass to create space between them. “Not about this.”

“Only because you know I am right.” Benjamin’s jaw muscles flexed. “You know what Hamish is all about. You knew he’d be a problem for us, for Mary and Emma.” His fierce eyes zapped between our brothers. “Where is your compassion? Your loyalty? How can you stand by him after everything he’s put us through? God, I am just…” His head shook in disappointment. “I thought it would be different.”

Martin’s head hung in shame.

“I thought…” Benjamin’s jaw rocked back and forth as he forced himself to calm down. “I thought you’d speak up for us this time.”

Heart in my throat, I looked from one sibling to another. I wish I could wave a magic wand to repair the damage.

And then it hit me like a tsunami.

Magic is not the answer.

We are bound by love.

“Ben, do you remember when you fell out of that old willow tree and landed face-first in the mud?” I mused randomly, and four pairs of eyes fell on me. “You squealed like a stray cat in the night. Miles held your nose for fifteen minutes because you thought you would bleed to death.”

My twin is understandably confused. “And?”

“Martin almost got into a fight with a bully at football practice,” I said with a sad smile. “He was scared. I saw it. I was scared, too.” My stare went to Mary, who studied me closely beneath furrowed eyebrows. “And you were so mad. You threw the candy floss at me, told me to stay behind the fence and marched onto the field. You punched the lad in the face. You broke your wrist.”

“Yeah, well, do not mess with my brother.” Mary suppressed a morose smile, touching her wrist, remembering the pain as if it had happened yesterday. “I still feel a burning sensation in my hand sometimes.”

“Mary punched everyone in sight.” Miles laughed airily, and our sister’s eyes rolled. “Oh, come on. You were like a Rottweiler. Remember Jasmine?”

“Ugh,” Mary huffed under her breath. “Did you have to remind me?”

“I am lost.” Martin glanced between them. “Who is Jasmine?”

Miles chewed his thumbnail. “Just some girl I dated back then.”

“Who told everyone you cheated on her,” Mary pointed out, and Miles’ head bobbed in agreement. “Lying bitch. I caught her at some party with her tongue down another guy’s throat.”

“And our sister decided to rearrange her face.” Miles’ arm slid over Mary’s shoulders. “That poor girl lost a front tooth.”

Mary’s face was flushed pink. “As I said, do not mess with my brother.”

“Dad sent us out of the house,” I said, and everyone quietened down to listen. “We got on his nerves again. He wanted some peace and quiet.” No, he wanted us to scram so that he could sneak into the neighbour’s bed. “It was boiling hot, like a heatwave or something. We had no money. The five of us sat on the pier all day, sunburnt and drooling for water.”

“Oh, I remember!” Mary wiped her mascara-streaked cheeks. “You fell over on the boardwalk and grazed your knees!”

I smiled at the memory. “And you stole ice cream from the corner store to make it better.”

My sister beamed.

“You were convinced that your legs were broken.” Martin gazed into space. “So, I gave you a piggyback ride all the way to the beach. You called me the bestest brother of all time.” He glanced down at me, the shortest of the group, and gave me a lazy smirk. “I was your favourite for all of one day.”

“You are such a fucking traitor,” Benjamin half-joked, then locked an arm across my shoulders. “I should disown you for the cheek.”

My lips puckered. “I plead the fifth.”

“We lounged on the sand.” Martin is lost in the memory of us, the day at the pier, the afternoon at the beach. “We swam in the water until wrinkled. We ate stolen ice lollies and swore God would forgive us.”

Memories of us chasing each other through the waves played like a series of flashcards in my head. I remember how much we laughed, how Mary chased Martin across the shore with a dead crab on the end of a stick until he tackled her into the whitecaps and promised to drown her for scaring him within an inch of his life. Miles buried Benjamin in the sand and then threatened to leave him there for the seagulls to pick out his eyes. I struggled to build a sand castle and carry buckets of seawater to the trench. Martin showed me that It was easy.

Gazing at my older brother, I felt a twinge of sadness. “You taught Benjamin how to swim.”

“And Benjamin taught me how to check out girls without them noticing,” Martin replied, and the pair of them burst out laughing. “Just a pair of sunglasses, right?”

“Fucking Hell.” My twin is mortified. “I feel like such a creeper.”

“You are a creeper.” Mary slapped his shoulder playfully. “It was a nightmare growing up with three brothers. I spent the majority of my childhood warding off girls. I don’t know how you did it, or what you promised, but they’d show up, stalking our house for hours, just to get a glimpse of one of you in rugby shorts.”

Miles flashed a toothy grin. “Probably because Martin pulled a mooney from his bedroom window whenever they pestered him.”

“What?” Mary dissolved into laughter. “Martin, I never knew you had it in you.”

“Thanks, Miles.” Martin blushed darker shades of embarrassment. “You had to bring that up and humiliate me.”

“Wait…” A grim shadow fell across Benjamin’s face. “You used to flash your arse to the neighbours. Mate, they were old as fuck.”

“It happened one time!” Our older brother, yanking on the collar of his shirt, is hot and bothered. “And it wasn’t for the neighbours’ benefit. I got it out for the young girls–” Everyone scolded him for the diabolical choice of words. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Could you not make me sound like a pervert? I was young, too!” His cheeks blew out. “Why am I in the shit for something the younger version of myself did? I have grown balls and slept since then.”

“Chill.” Mary rubbed Martin’s back. “We are only winding you up.”

Prolonged silence stretched between us. For a moment, when I looked at them, one by one, I could see the innocent faces of four kids and those forgotten emotions I once felt came pouring back. I love them. I never stopped loving them. No matter how much time had passed.

“We didn’t need anyone.” Hugging myself, I glanced at the floor to hide the tears in my eyes. “Just as long as we had each other.”

“It’s not too late,” Mary whispered, and I inwardly thanked her for stepping in. “We are still here.”

“Ben?” Martin’s watery eyes beckoned for a smidgen of hope. “Do you want to try, or is hatred too deep for forgiveness?”

“I could never hate you.” Benjamin is calmer now, but he looked at the floor when he spoke because it would take more than an afternoon of recollections to erase years of disappointment. “You’re my brother.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Brad

Hamish Hughes blanched ashen white when he gained access to his private suite and came across a sacred deity of superior exquisiteness reposed in the magnificent four-poster bed.

Who could blame him for the silent bemusement? I am a fine specimen of a man, the creme de la creme of prime importance. He ought to be grateful for stumbling across true godliness.

A rare find.

“I know that look,” I said with an accusatory finger aimed at the unhappy duo. “You want to know how a magnanimous human like myself fell into the chasm of royal prerogative.”

A question flirted with the end of Hamish’s tongue as he placed a key onto the wooden sideboard: How did I unlock the door without a metal instrument? I am not that good at breaking and entering.

Or am I?

Tossing a misshaped bobby pin by his feet, the self-explanatory mechanism skittering along the floor, I tucked my arms behind my head and crossed my legs at the ankles.

Enjoyable relaxation activated.

The four-poster bed bedecked with majestic drapes was ultra-rich and extremely comfortable. I could fall asleep on my nose. But I am not here to hit the snooze button. I had a new assignment to execute.

It shall bebloodymarvellous.

“What are you doing in my room?” A series of heavy footsteps carried Hamish toward the old wooden door, where Martha, the frail, timid wife, dawdled with bouts of fear and doubt. “I asked you a question,boy.”

And I answered, to no one,Peasant.

“Just so you are aware, I will be pressing charges against everyone involved in this morning’s assault.” Hamish gripped his wife by the elbow, dragged her inside the room and slammed the door on its rusty hinges. “I have a panel of witnesses who will provide evidence of the brutality.”

I am unfazed by the man’s idle threat. Anyone stupid enough to testify against me in the court of law will be exiled by The Warren Syndicate. I will order an unmerciful hit: concrete shoes to the bottomless ocean or butchered skin and a barrel of hydrofluoric acid.

Besides, I merely roughed him up earlier. A brawl circumvented by a mob of moral subjects is hardly an act of savage physical violence.

How many blows to the face did I accomplish? One? Two? Three at a push.

It was me that should be angry. I suffered an ordeal. Some unknown folk waded through the affray, snatched my throat from behind and tried to rip out my voice box, all because I had the upper hand.

Shock fucking horror.

Poppa Hughes might be high-and-mighty, but he is not strong enough to take on a man like me. I had him on the floor with my foot on his neck before his youngest son could get across the table.

What can I say? I am unhesitant and unpredictable.

Dangerously impulsive.

Hamish watched through sliced, clouded eyes as my hand smoothed on the tasselled pillow and plucked leaking duck feathers, the hollow quills scraping the underside of my fingers in the process.

His nostrils flared, the fine grey hairs of his nasal cavities bristling. “You will look at me when I talk,boy.”

“Who is thisboythat you speak of?” My eyes slowly lifted to meet his frosty stare. “Last I checked, I am all man. The fantabulous cock swinging between my legs can attest to the accuracy of self-conceit.”

Throwing the pillow aside, duck feathers airborne, I swung my legs over the bed and rose to my feet.

It was my favourite form of intimidation, the advantage of interpersonal dominance. I am terrifyingly tall.

Men like Hamish had to step back and make room for me. Each decisive step forward made damn sure of it.

“How does it feel?” I asked with a naughty smirk on my lips, and he craned his neck upward to get a better view of his opponent. “To grapple for morsels of masculinity and fall short of the societal ideal of manhood? To be demeaned and denigrated by a man almost half your age?” My footsteps came to a standstill once the tips of our leather shoes touched. “It must be depressing, breaking your back to genuflect beforeroyalty.”

“You insolent fraud.” The abhorrence aflame in his eyes seemed to stand the test of time. “You are no better than every other stray mongrel sniffing at the gutters of Mostyn Avenue,” he growled savagely, and I recoiled slightly, taken aback by the unexpectedness of his all-knowing tone of voice. “Oh?” His eyes rounded in glee. “You thought I believed the how-I-met-your-daughter charade, did you? Mr Jones, I have lived on that street for over forty years. I can smell deceit a mile off.”

I tried to school my expression, to hide the truth in my eyes and quell nausea in my stomach, but the old man soldiered through the pretence of indifference with a derisive laugh and knocked me for six.

“I remember every season, summer, autumn, winter and spring.” He circled me like a man on a mission, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, leather shoes sinking into the carpet. “Every festive holiday. Every emotion, happy and sad.”

My heart pounded. Hamish sounded cock sure of himself, like he knew something I did not. Or perhaps I did know the reason behind the man’s overoptimistic perception of Mostyn Avenue’s darkest secrets.

When I chased the memories of childhood, pain, trauma, suffering and anguish, I could see the regrettable look in his pinched eyes when slipping out of my mother’s bedroom, sleazy, dishevelled and half-dressed, as if it happened yesterday.

It is plausible that Yolanda’s frequent bedmate recognised me. I am the aged face of the boy who once stood in the doorway of his bedroom as this geezer moseyed along in a half-buttoned shirt and an unbuckled pair of trousers.

Always barefoot.

He never made eye contact with me. Not when I was young. He drifted in and out of the house like I was invisible. Non-existent. Unworthy of his time or knowledge, a pest in the throes of copulation.

Yet, here we stand, wordlessly promising to unlock the door to the skeletons in each other’s closet.

Maybe I underestimated the wickedness of the wicked, the knower of all things dark and mysterious. He is more switched on than I thought.

Hamish’s dark voice took possession of my ear. “Every neighbour.”

“A round of applause for you,” I replied with an impassive visage. “You have yet to fall victim to a major neurocognitive disorder.” My tongue clicked once. “That can change in the next five minutes.”

His firm jawline twitched. “Are you threatening me?”

“An intention to inflict pain, injury or damage?” Picking up the rustic gold artichoke ornament on the bedside table, I tested the weight in my hands, wondering how much damage the heavy object could do to the man’s skull. “Why would I do something as outrageous as that? It’s not like you upset my girl in front of a live audience and all that malarkey.”

“Mary ismydaughter.” Hamish’s eyes dazzled with pure devilment. “Our relationship has nothing to do with you.” His icy glare slithered to Martha when she attempted to move across the room. “You are to be seen, not heard.”

Martha froze on the spot, then gave him a firm, dutiful nod of the head. Her red-cheeked submissiveness was embarrassingly mockable-a backbone she did not possess.

“I have a nasty streak.” Hamish’s face was sharply contoured. “You should take that into consideration before you provoke me.”

“See, I am a professional provocateur,” I taunted, dumping the ornament on the bed. “It’s in my blood, Hughes. I like to behave controversially to get a rise out of inferiors. You should expect the unexpected whenever I am around.”

He stalked my movements. “I could shatter you with words alone.”

“Really?” Yes, I suppose he could throw an array of insults with accuracy. He played along with the fake relationship fiasco in the presence of wedding guests, family and friends, but now that we are alone, for him to hold accountable those who lied to save face, he could test the waters and draw an emotional reaction out of me. “It’s funny, actually. I, too, have the power to rip you a new arsehole.”

He huffed out a laugh, scrubbing the palm of his hand along the scruff of his jaw. “You know nothing about me.”

“Oh, I know everything there is to know about you.” Evil thoughts pulsated like a second heartbeat. “Does a closeted atheist ring any bells? A pseudotheist, perhaps. Maybe you prefer the termhypocrite.”

“Sacrilege!” His eyes swam with sinister intent. “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I embrace God the Father. I am obedient to the laws of his gospel. You will not question my devotion to the Lord, boy.”

I pulled a strange face. “I did exactly that.”

“You have the nerve to suggest that I am a Janus-faced parishioner when you walk around in gaudy textiles and fool’s gold to conceal your true identity. A deceptive fraudster.”

Emma’s father is shovelling deeper into the truth, and I am not sure how I feel about that. “I like Mary,” I told him, and his evil-eyed stare, slow and menacing, came back to me. “But earlier, when you dismissed my feelings regarding your daughter, I was referring to Emma.”

Hamish’s lips curled into a half-smile of deprecation. “Why am I not surprised? Emma does not conform to the approved standards of morality.” His dark eyes smouldered with rascality. “Sleeping with her sister’s boyfriend is a character trait.”

“Let’s be categorical about the facts, Hughes.” A rush of considerable vexation fluttered under my skin. “Mary is not my girlfriend. Your daughter is a lesbian. Her actual partner is downstairs somewhere. A formal introduction occurred at breakfast.” My lips almost stretched into a brilliant white smile. “Patricia, isn’t it?”

Martha gave me a concerned look.

“I came along for the free cake.” That’s not entirely true. I agreed to this trip becausefashionwas mentioned. I got tucked up brutally. “A male escort, if you may.” Another lie. Christ, I am on a roll this morning. “Although, I do not like the word escort. Is courtesan more appropriate? I suppose it works in historical context.”

Hamish expelled a measured breath.

I was getting under his skin.

Good.

“Mary asked if I would accompany her to the wedding to keep the man with anachronistic values off her back.” Yes, I am looking at you,Daddy Dearest.“Personally, if you were my father, I would tell you to go and fuck yourself with a ten-foot pole. My sexuality is neither here nor there. It’s certainly not the business of my sperm donor. But Mary is not me. She is her own person. And, to my dismay, she longs for your approval.”

“Never,” he said in a grave voice. “I will never accept or approve of same-sex relationships. Homosexuality is abnormal and unnatural.” His steely eyes hold me firmly in place. “I will not lose any sleep over my daughter’s sexual preference, though. Mary will get her eventual comeuppance. Her soul will descend into Hell, where she will be subjected to punitive suffering.”

Who put this fucking donkey in charge?

“As for Emma, I lost hope for her many years ago when, at the ripe old age of fifteen, she did the walk of shame through our neighbourhood and cried rape about an innocent young lad.” Hamish’s vicious smile appeared in slow motion. “Did you know Killian O’Shea committed suicide subsequent to the false allegations laid against him? That my son, Benjamin, trusted his sister blindly and threw his whole life away to be with his twin, leaving the family home to travel from city to city.”

I listened.

“Selfish,” Hamish drawled lugubriously. “My Emma is heartless, self-centred andselfish. She ruined lives, and for what? To save herself from the humiliation of self-destruction.”

His words felt like a knife to the throat.

I wanted to turn the blade on him.

Make him bleed.

“Oh, the rigmarole had barely begun. Emma would not be Emma if she did not add fuel to the fire. As if ripping two families apart was not enough, she went and dropped the baby bombshell on my doorstep,” Hamish spat, spittle spraying into the universe like bacterial broth. “And, of course, I have always been sceptical,” he added with a knowing twitch of the lips. “There are question marks over Carter’s head.”

Martha whimpered in the corner. “Hamish-”

“Silence,” he admonished her to remain mute, and she wilted onto the rickey chair by the vanity table with clumsy limbs. “Mylovelydaughter was not satisfied with one O’Shea lad. Killian’s older brother, Tommy, is an easy target for the deceitful siren. He used to walk barefoot on hot coals to protect her from the tragedies of life.” His eyes glittered triumphantly. “Is he still around, by any chance?”

Yes, Tommy is in the picture, but not for the reasons he insinuated. He wanted to reconnect with his nephew, not his ex-girlfriend.

A former girlfriend is probably inaccurate.

They were never in an exclusive relationship.

A could-have-been boyfriend.

“I always wondered if Tommy knew the truth.” Hamish circled me like a hawk on the hunt for its prey. “Emma did, after all, sleep with two brothers during ovulation.”

Doubt or uncertainty regarding Carter’s biological father is news to me. My girl had never voiced concerns.

“Emma did not consent to sex with both men,” I corrected him. “Sexual assault was Killian’s choice of weapon. The invalidation of childhood trauma is unjustifiable. Emma will not be silenced for staying true to herself and fighting for what’s right.”

“What’s right?” Hamish choke-laughed in utter astonishment. “I share her dirty little secret with you and you defend her. I am disappointed, Mr Jones.” He levelled me with a cool-eyed gaze. “I expected more than pusillanimous leadership from one of Capital’s most notorious criminals.”

I smiled at that. “I love a good old rumour.”

“A hard fact,” he spoke with an air of rabid cantankerousness. “You work for the most feared crime syndicate in London. How many life sentences did the law throw at your boss after? I hear he will die in chains.”

“Don’t,” I warned him to back off, or I will not be held responsible for my action. “Say whatever the fuck you want about me, I can handle it, but if you come for my brother, in any matter at all, I will dismember every part of your body and flush your organs down the toilet.”

His pale skin flushed crimson as he dodged the bullet of overstepping boundaries and reverted to the previous topic of his daughter’s memories. “You must enjoy the taste of trickery.” His throat cleared. “To let Emma touch you with lies.”

No, I loathed anyone who practised deception, but my girl’s life before now is irrelevant. The pain of yesterday (Emma’s fallout with the O’Shea brothers) happened before the two of us met. I will not judge her for cherishing her relationship with Tommy and regretting her friendship with Killian, no more than I expected her to form an opinion about all the questionable shit I got up to over the years.

I am not completely irrational.

“There are no lies.” Reaching into my trouser pocket, I pulled out the pre-rolled blunt, popped the roach between my lips and sparked an incandescent lighter flame. “Even if Emma is unsure whether or not Killian is Carter’s biological father, it changes nothing between us. I care about her too much to walk away.” Inhaling a deep drag of marijuana-infused smoke, I let It roll to the back of my throat, held it there for repose and respired in intervals. “Persuasion, on the contrary, is otiose, Hughes. I am not one of the cult’s convincible minions. I have a mind of my own. I can think for myself.”

Hamish, with eyes screwed at the corners, frowned when I perched on the edge of the bedside table. “Are you still scared of the dark?”

I swallowed, the tight lump in my throat increasing in size. “Am I supposed to understand the sibylline direction of this conversation?”

“Oh, don’t be so modest!” Hamish waggled a finger at me. “I know that you know that I know exactly who you are.” He chortled loudly, unfolding a satin napkin to dab the dews of sweat on his wrinkled forehead. “God, that was a hard tongue twister. I nearly tripped over myself, Martha.”

Martha smiled in discomfort.

Hamish’s laughter faded.

An infinitesimal pause.

“Bradley Kelleher.” He filled in the blanks with the satisfactoriness of a full-bellied beast ensconced on the throne of victory. “So, what happened to you? Did you run away with the other scallywag across the road, or did the white van man snare you on the way home from school? I have often thought about your whereabouts over the years.”

Enjoying the imbibition of marijuana, I chose silence.

“Is he about?” Hamish glanced at the door as if he half-expected my old friend to show up at the last minute to save the day. “Brian.”

“No.” My stare was cold and unwavering. “I killed him.”

Hamish’s mouth fell open. “Nonsense.”

“You said it yourself. I work for the most feared crime syndicate in London.” Smoke scrawled out of my mouth. “Feel free to educate me, Hughes. What is the job role for a dangerous criminal at the behest of a highly centralised enterprise run by none other than Liam Warren?” My head tilted to the side in observation. “I suppose you think I plant fucking daises with all those shovels I brandish. I very much doubt there are dead bodies awaiting burial service in the back of the G-Wagon.”

He looked at me like I was a monster. “You murdered your best friend.”

“I did.” And I would do it again in a heartbeat. “I have a mile-long rap sheet of murders under my belt because I have zero fucks to give when it comes to snakes. You might want to think about that the next time you get too big for your boots and step on my toes.”

“Of course.” Hamish’s ragged inhalation betrayed the calm demeanour. “Only, I do not believe for one second that you’d risk your relationship with my daughters to put me in an early grave. Mary would be furiously unforgiving. Emma, bless her soul, might never speak to you again. You can hate me all you want, but you cannot change the fact I am their father.” His manipulation tactics are on point. I will give him that. “Do you want to lose them in the midst of premeditated recklessness?”

It was his turn tounderestimatemy capabilities. I could snap his neck and walk out of the room with my head held high five seconds later. The Hughes sisters’ tears of grief be damned. I amthatunfazed.

Martha, the ungainly little hostess with theun-mostest, reminded me that she was still in the room by staggering to her feet and knocking into a stainless-steel service trolley of porcelain crockery. “Perhaps I can make everyone a sweet cup of tea and grab a packet of shortbread biscuits.” A conciliatory gesture. “How many sugars do you take, Mr Jones?”

“Sit down,” Hamish demanded without so much as a glance in her direction. Her backside returned to the chair, where she sat rigidly straight and worrisomely malleable. “Bradley-”

“Don’t call me that,” I said in a soft-spoken voice, but inwardly, I flinched once more in his presence. “Brad is fine. Successful, handsome, sexy-”

“Arrogant,” he quipped, as sarcastic as ever, to which I handled with a non-committal scoff of indecisiveness. “Unappealinglyarrogant.”

I am hardly offended by the invidious behaviour of a grumpy old man. His petty insults cannot hurt me. “Bradley Kelleher died in Mostyn Avenue. He has no business in this room.”

“Ah, yes.” Hamish strolled over to the window with casual strides and watched people promenade in the garden. “Mr Jones it is then. I imagine that taking your father’s surname provided a sense of security after your mother’s tragic death.” A sly smile twitched his lips. “Funny, I should mention Yolanda. I don’t remember seeing you at her funeral.” Hands fixed behind his back, he turned to his wife. “Do you, Martha?”

“No.” Martha squirmed in the chair, trying to avoid the dispute. “The church was relatively empty. It was a beautiful service, though. I sent a floral arrangement to her graveside not long after.”

Not even God himself could have forced me to pay my respects to the vile bitch who had the audacity to call herself a mother.

I’d slit my throat first.

I could not tell you where the service occurred, if there was music, hymns and poems, if any of the other neighbours attended, or if a catholic priest led the final prayers. I was disinterested then, and I am disinterested now.

“My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.” An unbothered shrug is the most I can offer. “I am surprised you made an appearance, Hughes. Mourning your dead mistress must have been a kick in the teeth for your wife.”

Hamish’s smug smile disintegrated. “I beg your pardon.”

“You heard correctly.” My pinched lips were the closest imitation of a satisfied smirk. “How often did you visit my mother’s bed?”

“Your discernment of the past is misconstrued. I was a good friend to your mother.” Hamish spun threads of gold lies better than the intentionally deceitful Rumpelstiltskin. “I frequented the Jones’ property to support her through manic episodes associated with her bipolar disorder.”

I nearly forgot about the assignment and asked him about my mother’s disorder, as I had never gotten answers about her mental health issues, but then I reminded myself that the manic-depressive cunt did not deserve an ounce of my time or consideration.

“Your husband fucked my mother on the kitchen table,” I snitched and felt good about it, too. “Day in, day out. If not the table or the sofa or the wall in the foyer, then in her bed, over and over again, morning, noon and fucking night. I should know. I saw them together, naked or déshabilléd.”

Martha, with the reddest cheeks of a mortified woman, clutched the solid gold crucifix chain around her neck. Her dark blonde hair hung lifelessly by her ears, where heat scorched her throat and chest.

“I used to lay awake at night, in bed, by the window, with a pillow over my face to drown out the sound of her headboard pounding against my bedroom wall.” Twirling the blunt between my fingers contemplatively, I brought the roach to my lips and dragged a thick haze of smoke to my lungs. “Christ, I have scars for life. I can still hear them in the back of my head.”

For some reason, one I might never truly understand, Martha was quick to show sympathy. Her eyes, immersed with sadness and pity, roved over me like she wanted to reach out and give me a hug, to tell me that she understood and that everything was going to be okay.

Don’t feel sorry for me, Doll. I am not bothered by Yolanda’s romantic affair with your husband. It’syouthat lives with the betrayal of what he did-what he continues to do on a regular basis-time and time again.

“As I said, I was a good friend to your mother. Someone had to step in and pick up the pieces of abandonment after your deadbeat father up and left.” Hamish, whether I liked it or not, spoke the truth. My old man did walk away from his responsibilities, leaving his wife and son behind to be with another woman and her kids. Or so the story goes. “How is Arlo these days? He never made it to your mother’s funeral, either.”

Everything in the room morphed into monochromatic grey. I saw no other colour but the depressing pigmentation of toxicity and dullness. “You will not bad-mouth my father.” My body trembled with the type of rage I knew not to overlook. “I have killed for less, Hughes.”

Hamish’s brow arched. “I am not scared of you, boy.”

And the supercilious attitude was the final nail in the coffin. “I came here to threaten you.” Balancing the smouldered blunt between my lips, I bridged the gap and dipped my head to get on a level with him. “I had every intention of leaving you unscathed and walking out of that door, just as long as you promised never to upset Emma and Mary again. I was prepared to give you a chance.”

His cold eyes blazed with anger.

“But you will forever torture your children because life without dominance and control is purposeless.” My hands latched onto the lapels of his suit jacket. “Sinners cannot be redeemed.”

Unhesitant.

Unforgiving.

Unremorseful.

I threw him straight through the window.

Glass shattered. His arms and legs flail wildly as the gravity between us wretches his body down to the path below. It was over before it started-one loud, terrified scream for help, then a thunderous thump.

His skull imploded.

Blood spattered across the concrete.

I stared at the man’s lifeless body, his wide, unblinking eyes and awkwardly disjointed limbs.

A cold wind blew through my hair, and speckles of rain dusted my face. I blinked rapidly to erase the image in front of me, then collected myself before turning to the shrieking woman on the other side of the room.

Martha was beside herself, crying, screaming, cursing and shaking as she fumbled with the key to unlock the door.

“Stop,” I ordered, and she flinched, her palms striking the door in an attempt to calm down, to regulate her erratic breathing. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

“You…killed…him,” she stuttered, yanking on the door handle with panic and desperation. “You…murdered him!”

“No, I was never here,” I said, matter-of-fact, and she spun around to face me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, with mascara-streaked cheeks. “Did you know about the security control room downstairs? It’s next to the staff room. I walked in and found not one member of security by the monitoring and surveillance system.” Hands slipping into my trouser pockets, I strolled toward the door and stared down my nose at her. “Imagine that. I could delete the footage with a click of the fingers.”

Her blue-tinted lips quivered.

“Christ, with a modicum of sense, I could turn off the surveillance cameras, break into a man’s room and chuck him out the window without any evidence or proof that I did, in fact, kill without regret, and then return to London for a nice bottle of whiskey to celebrate.” An impish smile danced on my lips. “It sounds like a normal day at the office. I am naughty like that. Never one to follow the rules.”

I took one step forward, and she drew in a sharp breath, her back firmly sticking to the door. “Please,” she said quietly, a hollow hitch in her breath. “Do not hurt me…”

“Hamish jumped.” My finger slowly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “He argued with his wife and jumped. You never had the chance to stop him. It was decided. He had nothing to live for.” My thumb teased the spot behind her ear. “Not after you threatened him with divorce.”

“Who would believe me?” Her body shivered because the touch of a man made her feel uncomfortable, even though the thumb stroke to her jaw was gentle and innocuous. “Hamish was not suicidal. He valued his life.”

“He jumped,” I reaffirmed, and her chin lifted in an act of defiance. Good. It’s nice to know that she still had a little fight left. “He jumped, or I will wrap my hand around your throat and end your pitiful life once and for all.” To get the message across, I did precisely that, hand tightening around her neck to limit her oxygen supply, to which she protested, her eyes rounding in horror, her fingernails clawing at my bracelet-laden wrist. “Say it.”

“He jumped,” she gasped, her slender body thrashing, knees hiking alternately in distress, as my overpowering body nailed her to the door. “He had nothing to live for, so he jumped!”

“That’s the spirit.” Fingers flexing, I loosened the iron grip on her throat and allowed her some room to breathe and regenerate. “You stare like you hate me.”

“How could I not loathe the man responsible for my husband’s death?” Her teeth flared with the bitterness of a deranged woman. “You have left my children without a father, you selfish, heartless monster!”

“No.” My hand snatched hair at the nape of her neck, and she winced in pain, her eyes closing momentarily. “I did your family a fucking favour. Mark my words, Ms Hughes. You will thank me for this gift one day.”

Swiping the key from her hand, I shoved her aside and unlocked the door, but before I could exit the room, she gripped the sleeve of my suit jacket.

Preparing myself for a verbal slap or a punch in the eye, I looked down at the place where she held me. Her fingers are so dainty. It would be a shame to break them.

“I never thought I would see you again,” Martha whispered, and for a brief second, she looked relieved that I was here, in the flesh, as if my attendance this weekend had finally registered. “All those years ago, when you and Brian disappeared, I prayed for your safe return nightly…until I lost hope.”

The door was cracked open marginally.

As she was not ready to say goodbye, to let me get away from this godforsaken retreat in peace, I shut the door to ensure guests were not privy to our conversation.

“You were a lovely little boy, friendly, polite, well-behaved and well-mannered.” Wiping her blotchy cheeks, she sniffled into the cuff of her long-sleeved cardigan. “How bad was it? Living in that house?” Her eyes skittered over my profile in search of a response. Or was it peace of mind? I could not be sure. “You did not have it easy with Yolanda, did you?”

An imperceptible shake of the head was the only response I could muster.

“I thought as much.” Martha nodded understandingly, but she could never understand. Not really. Only the walls of my childhood home knew the secrets I carried, and they burnt to ashes and embers. “Your mother was very unwell.”

“Yolanda was nothing short of evil,” I stated firmly, almost vehemently, and she backed up three steps. “Do not sympathise with that woman. Her mental health will never be a good enough excuse for the way she treated me.”

After a long pause, where the demure woman with large, watery eyes studied me closely, she sighed heavily, the breathy exhale a first step toward acceptance. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I am glad you got out and found safety.” Her stare returned to the broken window. For someone that just lost her husband to a brutal murder, she did not seem overly upset about his death or the reason behind it. If anything, she looked torn and confused. “Where do I go from here?”

Right, I will have to spell it out for her. “Once I leave, I expect you to wait five minutes before you call the receptionist. You will need to summon the waterworks for that task. Your grief, shock and distress must be believable for the police to buy the story.”

Her lips parted. “The police?”

“Yes, Martha. The police will be called. An officer will take a statement. Hamish’s body will be dumped in a bodybag and conveyed to the local mortuary.” When she said nothing, I sighed out loud. “Give me your phone.”

“Oh,” she said, hesitant. “How do you know about the phone? Did Emma mention it?”

“No…” I must confess that I am completely puzzled. “Everyone has a phone.”

“I am not allowed to have one.” Kneeling by the bed, she reached under the mattress and extracted an old burner phone. It was switched off. “Hamish will not be happy if he finds out…” Her lips flattened into a thin line, and fresh tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “I am sorry. I am a mess. It’s a lot to take in.”

Parking my arse on the edge of the bed, I snatched the phone out of her hand, switched it on, waited a ridiculous amount of time for it to load and saved my number into contacts. “You can text me if there are issues.” Not that I think any problems will arise. The woman must weigh less than eighty pounds. No officer is going to suspect that she is able to hurl a man like Hamish to his death. “Just stick to the programme and everything will be peachy.”

Martha accepted the phone. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“Maybe someday,” I said, knowing she was more than capable. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” she demanded more when I was shy of opening the door. “Do you love her?”

I did not need to consider the question. “No.”

“Then, what are your intentions?” she persisted, and I turned around to meet her gaze. “I know I am not in Emma’s life, but I have watched her suffer from afar since the moment she fledged the nest. All I want is for her to be happy.”

“And she will be,” I promised, having every intention of making my girl smile for as long as she was willing to have me. “You should worry about your relationship with Emma.” The door flung open. “Not mine.”

It took me less than ten minutes to pack. It’s not like I utilised the room to my advantage. I would never risk dust or mites on my precious belongings, so everything mostly stayed in the case for the majority of the weekend.

As Josh was nowhere to be seen, I shot him a quick text message to hurry up and ditch the receptionist before I walked through the gardens toward the makeshift car park to retrieve the Bentley.

Driving to the hotel’s entrance once the boot was packed with our cases, I killed the engine, climbed out of the vehicle and relit the half-smoked blunt from earlier.

Me: An emergency closed-door conclave is underway.

Message delivered.

Me: The Elite only.

I am an impatient sod, so when Vincent left the message unread, I typed out another. If I pester him, he will take the bait.

Me: I will hunt you down.

Me: I will drive to Club 11.

Me: I will shoot my way into the office.

Me: I will do your fucking nut in until you reply!

Message read.

Vincent: I have a life outside of the syndicate, Jones.

Me: Really? I could have sworn that you lived in Warren’s shadow.

Vincent: What do you want?

Me: I have a stellar game plan.

Me: You must attend the meeting.

Me: It’s non-negotiable.

Vincent: Your incessant harassment irritates me so. You can send one message with orders. An endless chain of notifications is highly unnecessary.

Me: That would be boring.

Me: Don’t you think?

Vincent: Club 11 is closed.

My eyes narrowed.

Me: What?

Vincent: I shut the doors until further notice.

Me: Why?

Vincent: Employees were the only people in the building Friday night. Not a customer in sight is unprecedented. And alarming. I made a judgement call to protect the staff and the business.

I am not mad. The club was due to shut down anyway, but I had hoped for more time to prepare myself for future endeavours.

Me: We can discuss this matter later.

Vincent: Very well.

Me: If the club is closed, where can I find you?

Vincent: At the Reggae Bar, wallowing in self-pity.

Me: Sounds like a drag.

Joslynn: Did you pack my shit?

Me: It’s in the boot.

Joslynn: I am en route.

Vincent: Eight o’clock this evening. Do not be late.

Me: I don’t take orders from you.

Me: I will be there at nine to prove a point.

Vincent: You stubborn mule.

Me: Ten for the bastard cheek.

Vincent: Noted.

Me: Call Alexa, too.

Vincent: Why?

Me: I want her to be there. It’s important.

Vincent: Done.

Locking the phone, I tucked it into my trouser pocket and looked up in time to see Emma and her siblings wading through the hedged garden.

The five of them seemed happy, laughing, joking and playfully shoving each other, but they equally wore teary eyes, red cheeks and bedraggled attire.

It must have been an intense family reunion in the bushes, with all that disgusting, filthy water on their clothes and messy grass stains on their legs.

I am afraid to ask questions.

“Emma,” I called out, tossing the blunt on the floor, and my girl smiled wider when she spotted me leaning against the parked vehicle like a knight in shining armour. “What did I miss?”

“Ben threw Martin in the pond,” Mary said, but I never paid her heed. Emma’s beautiful face was my sole focus. “Martin retaliated and tried to drown Ben. Emma went ape-shit and defended her twin. The next thing I know, they are all in the water, trying to kill each other. I ran for my life.”

“So, I decided to chase Mary and fell flat on my arse instead.” Miles twisted the bottom of his shirt to wring out dirty pond water. “I think I broke my coccyx bone.”

“You deserve a helluva lot more for breaking my shoe.” Mary pointed to her stiletto, the one missing a heel. “I paid over a grand for these beauties. You owe me a new pair and a trip to the salon to fix the image.” She pulled wet leaves out of the scraggly ends of her hair and flicked them on the ground. “Suffice it to say, Miles caught me in the end and dumped me into the most vile-tasting water to date.”

Emma walked over, rubbing the shiver from her arms. “I will see you in a minute,” she said to her siblings, the four waving and dispersing to give us some privacy to talk. “Hey, Big Guy.”

Removing my suit jacket, I draped it over her shoulders to keep her warm. “Hey,” I whispered, holding the front of her water-drenched dress and tugging her close. “I wish I could spend more time with you, but I have to get back to London for a meeting this evening.”

“I am driving back with the others soon.” Emma’s lips paid homage to my throat, kissing and nipping. “You know, I could always sneak over tonight.” Her arms wound around my waist tightly, her bare arms transferring water to my shirt. “I am back at work Monday, but I could bring some stuff over and leave with you in the morning.”

“I would like that,” I agreed without hesitation, as I wanted nothing more than to wake up with her in my bed tomorrow. “You could stay every night of the week, Sweetheart. I told you. I am all in.”

“You would allow that?” she mused, her lips stretching into a smile when I peppered kisses along the sharp line of her jaw. “Be careful what you wish for, Big Guy. I might get obsessed and follow you everywhere like a lovesick puppy.”

“Please, do,” I joked as my skilful fingers found their way beneath her dress to get a teaser of her plump arse. Christ, I loved her curves, the way her peachy rear end sat perfectly in my hands. “Maybe I can slip a key in your bag to help you sneak around. I am not opposed to coming home and finding you in my bed every night, preferably naked and begging for a taste of my cock.”

“Brad,” Emma half-scolded, her lips grazing mine for analmostkiss. “You will never catch me begging for anything, especially the monster in your pants.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lifting her into my arms, I waited for her knees to rest on the car door behind me and held her close, intimate and elevated, her damp hair cascading over my face as I arched my neck to steal a kiss. “One look at me in an expensive suit? You will be putty in my hands.”

“You are wearing an expensive suit right now.” Her laughter was the sweetest-sounding symphony. “Pretty sure I can resist you.”

“And, here you are, putty in my hands.” My fingers dug into her arse to remind her of our current position. “Christ, I don’t fucking ache for you, Sweetheart.”

“Likewise,” she murmured, her fingernails drawing heart-shaped patterns on the nape of my neck. “I don’t care about you at all. Not even a little bit.” Sirens sounded in the distance, followed by flashing blue lights. Her eyebrows fused when she noticed police vehicles advancing toward the venue. “Why are the police here?”

“No idea,” I lied, and she bought it. “You were telling me how much you love me…” Fuck, she recoiled in my arms. I don’t know why I said that. “How much you lovefuckingme.”

“Is that what we did last night?” Emma brushed over the remark about undying love with a teasing smile. “See, I thought you madeloveto me.”

It was my turn to frown. “It was a new experience.” An experience I enjoyed and would definitely do again. Fun too, though. I like to get naughty beneath the sheets. I could not wait to see if this woman was untameable when coaxed out of her shell. My cock was hard just thinking about the uninhibited side that I know is buried in there somewhere. “I am open for round two tonight.”

“It was good for you, too, right?” she asked, in need of reassurance. “Only, I know that you normally do things differently. I would hate to be a disappointment to you.”

“No, I loved every second of it.” My thumbs circled her arse cheeks with tender strokes. “You could never disappoint me, Emma.”

“Okay,” she acquiesced with a shy glance to the sky. “I should go and pack. What time should I sneak in tonight?”

“I won’t be home until midnight. Terrence can drive you over earlier, though.” Fusing our lips without warning for either of us, I flicked my tongue into her mouth and kissed her deeply and with so much passion, like it was the last kiss we’d ever share, like I could not breathe again if she did not reciprocate. I had to force myself to stop, for I wanted more, so much more, and now was not the time to get ahead of myself, not with the officers gathering by the entrance and the dead body, bleeding out on the concrete path, around the corner. “There is a cinema room on the ground floor with your name on it,” I said, pulling away, slightly breathless. “You can keep the sofa warm for me.”

“It’s a date.” With one final kiss to my lips, Emma lowered her feet to the ground and steadied herself, tidying her appearance ineffectively to salvage the state of her ruined dress. “Big Guy?”

I had to fight the urge to relieve myself, to make room for the raging hard-on in my trousers. “Yes?”

“I am happy,” she admitted to herself, more than me, looking anything but delighted about that notion. “I am extremely happy, and what is worse, I am okay with that.” Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth. “I am okay with happiness.” Tears beaded on her lower lashes, not that she moved to wipe them away or hide them from me. “Carter would be, too. He did, after all, have a soft spot for the bin man.”

“Bin man.” I cracked a wolfish smirk. “I can dig that.”

Emma walked away, occasionally glimpsing over her shoulder to smile at me.

I watched her until I could no longer see her, then slumped against the car door like a pathetic fool.

“I know,” I snapped, sensing a judgmental presence behind me. “I am pussy-whipped and fucking what?”

“Chill.” Josh limped into my peripheral vision, his feet dragging along the floor. He chucked a carrier bag of stolen goods into the boot. “The receptionist slash manager gave us some food for the road. I am talking hot ham and cheese paninis and extra spicy potato wedges. You might find a leafy salad there, too.”

Honestly, I am not hungry. I can wait until later. “Why does it look like you have been pummelled in the arse?”

“Negative.” Josh stared deadpan at me. “I think I might have a dick fracture, though.” He palmed his crotch with a pained wince. “Carol Anne rode me harder than a fucking bronco.”

Swinging the driver’s side door open, I collapsed on the seat behind the steering wheel. “Serves you right for being such a slut.” Revving the engine, I dropped the handbrake with a click of the button. “You might be the sluttiest brother in syndicate history. I mean, who knew that the squeamish, nerdish, pimple-faced do-gooder from behind the bar had so much stamina? I might have been impressed if it were not for the bizarre foot fetish and the closet shenanigans.”

“Do not slut shame.” With an expression of twisted discomposure, Josh eased onto the passenger seat and carefully shut the door. “And I did not have pimples. What the fuck? I have always had a beautiful face.”

In the rearview mirror, I noticed movement by the hotel’s entrance. Martin is outside again, shilly-shallying by the main doors. His hands clasped to the back of his head as he stared hopelessly toward the dark grey skies. He was not crying. There wasn’t a tear of melancholy in his eyes. But he was shocked into numbness. I guess everyone knows about Hamish’s death.

Josh’s stare burnt the skin on the side of my face. “What did you do?”

“I listened to the boss’s order.” Foot on the accelerator, I ripped away from the venue and steered one-handedly down the long-winded driveway. “I got rid of the problem.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Bleu

I studied the unrecognisable girl in the Hollywood-style vanity mirror with LED bulb lights.

Her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair no longer complemented her refulgent blue eyes, high carved cheekbones, heart-shaped face and sharply outlined lips.

The dove grey roots, droopy eyelids, milk-white skin and red, non-prescribed glasses aged her by ten or fifteen years.

I missed the long, waist-length hair that rippled in the wind when I walked, the varicoloured blue highlights and choppy, feathery layers.

Turquoise nail varnish is the closest I felt to my old self, metallic lacquer and my mother’s vintage-style ring.

I suppose the eyes, bluer than the deep nature of spectacular lagoons in the Caribbean archipelagoes, provided a piece of me that no amount of liquid contour or camouflage techniques could take away.

Twirling the cheek-to-cheek blusher brush, I swept the high-performing bristles across the tender apricot palette and strategically powdered the prominent lines of my cheekbones-a touch of bronzer to the collarbones for a more defined look.

I had nowhere to be, places to visit or people to see, but when boredom is an occupational hazard for ladies of leisure, self-care is the only line of business I prioritised to manage stress and improve mental health. It’s not like I had anything better to do in this glorified cesspit of dehumanised prisoners.

Access to the main house isprohibited.

An encounter with the boss isprohibited.

An inquiry about almost everything isprohibited.

Basically, with a bucket load of unrealistic rules and nonsensical regulations that irked the wry little spitfire in me, the stubborn rebel, I lived in a gilded cage of good versus evil, entrapped by hawk-eyed guards in fancy three-piece suits, fashionably knotted ties and twenty-four karat gold, not to mention the semi-automatic firearms, the sadistic smiles promising ultimate death if you stepped out of line.

Life is a drag.

Intimidation by pitiful liegemen is not an exaggeration. I speak from experience when I say the excessive and unwarranted use of force by syndicate members is a serious problem at the Jones estate.

Just last week, when I strolled afoot to the front garden-minding my own business, might I add-five armed men appeared from nowhere, lambasted me for theunauthorised entry of a restricted areaand used brute physical strength against me, the victim of coercive control-well, the unpleasant halfwit that reeked of aftershave and cannabis, who quite literally put me in a headlock and dragged me, kicking, screaming and protesting, back to annexe building, did not, as far as I could tell, draw the line between persuasion and coercion-to get the message across that I should “stay in my lane” if I want to live to see another day.

Further, it goes without saying I will never, not in any circumstance, underestimate the lethality of violent criminals.

Mobsters mean business.

If a foot soldier threatens to strangle you to death with his bare hands, you better run for the hills, as fast as your legs can take you, before you wind up in a gutter with a snapped neck.

According to theunpleasant halfwitand his entourage, I gottoo closeto the main house when briskly perambulating through theforbiddengarden, which is an absurd accusation, as the entrance to the Jones’ residence is garrisoned by well-equipped soldiers, every hour of every day, to ward off unwanted visitors.

It is virtually impossible for normal folk to access the estates’ exclusion zones without getting caught. Those unfriendly, unsociable, unapproachable protection operators, with radios, earpieces, body armour and combat shotguns, would break my kneecaps if I placed one foot on the portico. I’d be garrotted with fibre wire and buried under the patio before I could even blink.

I kid you not. Mr Jones’ estate is an unofficial burial ground. You will not see accompanying headstones, immortelle flowers or dirt mounds through the field of lush greenery, but if you pick a spot, any random spot (hint: check the old, dilapidated barn), as a graveyard map is not a prerequisite for the truth of my story, you will locate plots and unearth the skeletons of previous captives.

A mass grave filled with the disposed bodies of mafia murder victims.

The only life in the hollow sphere of lost souls is black ravens and common crows (if you exclude Mr Jones’ minions, of course). An omen of death, with black eyes and rustling wings, in a dark place where it can hunt and feed on the deceased.

Do you find any truth in the factuality of this dire situation?

If not, can I change your opinion on the believability of the memories I carry?

You cannot question my integrity.

I know the truth because I live it.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

But silence is the heaviest burden to bear when you are lying awake at night, listening to the echoing screams of terror, of anguished pain, of gut-wrenching agony, when victims of torture plead for imminent death to escape misery.

The moon is my witness. I kneel on the bed in my private room, peer through the barred window and watch syndicate men re-emerge from the shadows, lugging plastic-wrapped bodies across the garden, ready for disposal, for in-ground burial.

I often think about them, the victims. I wonder if they were male or female, if they were young or old, if they were deserving or undeserving of premature death or if they had family and friends that would report their disappearance.

Then again, even if loved ones did notify the Metropolitan Police Department, I doubt anything would come of the investigation.

Warren Enterprise is in cahoots with bent police officers and corrupt government officials.

Considering the recent scandal surrounding the underworld, I have not seen law enforcement once since I moved into this sparkly property, which is simply mind-blowing.

Mr Jones’ boss is in prison for gang-related crimes in London. Is it not logical to continue the investigation and arrest the man’s blood-thirsty, power-hungry accomplices?

But hey, I am not a criminal investigator, so what do I know?

Maybe I am rude to assume that all of Liam Warren’s men should be in prison for the crimes they have committed.

Either way, it is genuinely moronic, leaving those wickedly evil villains to roam the earth freely without authority.

Now, where was I?

Right, the unpleasant halfwit (who left bruises on my neck whilst restraining me with an arm locked around my head) told me to stay away from the main house. I am not allowed to look at the building, let alone breathe on it. Not if I want to keep my vision, for he will stab my eyes out. Not if I want to keep my voice, for he will slice through my tongue. Not if I want to keep the baby, for he will throw me off a cliff with concentrate shoes and watch as the tempestuous waves of the ocean swallow me into the abyss.

I think you get the picture.

Mr Jones’ private property spanned approximately sixty acres of spectacular landscaped gardens. The dense woodland area, with direct access to the bank of the River Thames, is a secret place, unbeknownst to the priggish residents of the estate, I liked to visit at the darkest hour of the night for peace and quiet and respite, but oftentimes, when the sun is high in the cloudless sky and the birds are singing in chorus to involuntary musical imagery, I sneak off to those crystalline waters for an afternoon swim in the nude.

In the forest, by the magical river, I can be myself without anyone around to testify against me. I can express emotions healthily through the art of singing until my heart’s content, knowing I am safe and out of harm’s way.

To get my point across bluntly, I am not saying I did not glance at the imposing compound en route to the old oak woodland area, as anyone with a pair of eyes can appreciate its architectural grandeur when enjoying a leisure activity in the sun, but wilful disobedience is beyond the scope of my purpose in life.

Needless to say, when killing time, I never meant to ruffle the syndicate’s feathers. I might be (as stated by the health professional that did a comprehensive psychological assessment of me when I was just a teenager), only slightly, on the spectrum ofparticulardisorders (personality traits and behavioural characteristics can alter without a cocktail of unmentionables, not that antidepressants, antipsychotics or mood stabilisers effectively reduced so-called symptoms. I never needed them), but mood manifestations do not send me off the deep end or encourage me to do something as life-threatening as slapping a target on my back.

Mr Jones’ ugly sharpshooters can shove those pistols and idle threats up their arses for all I care. I never asked for a bounty on my head or to be the centralisation of criminal power and savage dictatorship.

Leave me be.

I am not hurting anyone.

What did security do when I promised to be wonderfully civilised? Laughed. They laughed in my face like I was the butt end of everyone’s joke (Let’s see how long the guards’ disproportionate egos last when I tie their dicks into knots). I was subjected to public humiliation and pilloried for no reason whatsoever.

A round of applause for the iron-fisted henchmen for making me the estates’ laughing stock.

I quivered with fear. Not.

However, in reaction to the institution’s flamboyant confidence and undelightful schadenfreude, I stood there in awkward silence, surprisingly sangfroid, until I espied Jonah, Gilbert, Lilith and Iris by the entryway of the annexe building.

That’s when I squirmed under pressure. I did not want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how to strike me where it hurts, more specifically, the brunette twins. Those scorned bitches, with matching hair, face, eyes and smiles, would love to know my weak spots to use them against me.

Thus I am, by order of Command, barricaded to the servants’ quarters of solid masonry walls, barred windows, church-style doors and, last but not least, the joke of all jokes, newly installed security cameras to transmit and store footage of potential crimes to the surveillance monitor in the guards’ private house.

Imagine that, walking around the halls with innumerable spies ogling at you, morning, noon and night.

To make them uncomfortable, I am half-tempted to wander through the house in my glorious birthday suit. I bet they’d love to see me in all my naked glory. It may get a rise out of Mr Jones, too. His studious men having front-row seats to his baby mother’s nude flesh might be the slap in the face he needs to snap out of this bizarre dry spell. I am desperate for his awareness, for his attention.

Aside from the invasion of privacy, there is not much else to report if you omit the tailored buffoon taking residence on the left side of the annexe building with Gilbert and Jonah. I could not tell you his name as I did not care to learn it during introductions.

The new guy is not very handsome (pasty-faced, fair-haired, with wonky teeth and a not-so-cute dimple on his right cheek), but the talented man has an incredible singing voice, a deep, rich, sexy baritone.

Mr Musical Genius is the best alarm clock in the early hours of the morning. He likes to sing in the kitchen whilst preparing protein shakes, veggie omelettes, steel-cut oats and power muffins.

I should not spy on the new guy, mainly because, technically speaking, he is an enemy amongst the employees of the annexe building, but ignoring such a pure and sensual voice is an impossible task.

Music is my calling. It’s the only thing I am good at. I do not sing or play the piano for ungrateful beings. I do it for myself. I do it for my biggest supporter, who no longer sits in the upholstered armchair.

Performing songs and playing instruments are forgotten memories now, though. I lost the right to share my passion with the world when I decided to steal Alice Montgommary’s identity.

But I can be a listener. I can appreciate another person’s art from the hallway’s dark alcoves. I can mouth along to the lyrics when the new resident is belting out tunes for the other housemates to approve and praise.

Tossing the blusher brush on the wooden vanity table, I turned on the rickety stool and flickered my gaze over the box-sized bedroom that resembled a cell block on a mediaeval nunnery wing of celibate brides of Christ.

I espied the baby’s grey huddle bunny with floppy ears on the single cottage-style bed, and a happy smile came to my lips.

Every dark cloud has a silver lining.

I will be a mother soon.

Previously, thanks to theCouttscard provided by Mr Jones (on loan to me for essentials only), I bought baby stuff online: Moses basket, sheets, blankets, monitors, soft toys, wardrobe, chest of drawers, feeding chair, changing unit and the world’s smallest clothing, the cutest of stark white textiles.

Jonah assembled the furniture and rearranged the bedroom last week whilst I packed a hospital bag, ready for a trip to the maternity ward.

I have yet to purchase a travel system, pram and car seat. Call it wishful thinking, but Mr Jones will find the time in his busy schedule to escort me to Harrods to buy the Cybex stroller.

He might bond with the baby if he is more involved in the pregnancy. Not that I am holding my breath. He’s missed every antenatal appointment, including the foetal anomaly scans.

There are no excuses, either. I know security left patient letters and sonogram pictures on his desk for me. He chose to miss those precious moments.

Feet slipping into a pair of ivy ballet pumps, I drew on the long-sleeved coral-coloured cardigan and scrambled to my feet, which proved to be somewhat tricky, as the pregnant belly loved to get in the way of my movements.

Even bedtime is a chore nowadays. Try and get a comfortable night’s rest with a baby’s foot constantly shoved in your ribcage.

“Alice?” Iris knocked on my bedroom door and poked her head into my room. “Why are you so ignorant? I have been calling you for ages. Gilbert is looking for you.”

I have noticed lately that Lilth and Iris did not need an excuse to spit vitriol at me.

Since Edith, bless her cotton socks, died and went to Heaven, the crazy twins have been on the warpath to make my life a living Hell.

If I walk into the kitchen to grab a bite to eat, they stare pointedly at me and snicker amongst themselves.

If I need to use the bathroom to wash my face or brush my teeth, they spend longer in the shower to piss me off.

If I request a date with the television in the communal living room, they deliberately fall asleep on the sofa, all cosy with their fluffy socks and furry blankets.

Petty behaviour is neither here nor there.

Over the years, I have had my fair share of bullies and scorned housemates.

I can handle a couple of half-brained imbeciles.

I hate what I cannot control, though.

Lilith, in particular, goes out of her way to turn people against me. I overheard the sharp-tongued cleaner in the dining room with Gilbert, the chef, talking rubbish. Her pursuit of mean gossip could only be described as jealousy.

She is also flabbergasted by the fact Mr Jones, one of London’s most eligible bachelors, lowered his standards to sleep with me and get me pregnant.

Gilbert, the two-faced moron, the cheeky fucker, the bane of my new life, is in agreement. He said the boss must have been “Off his trolley” to fall into bed with me in his arms.

The boring conversation upheld by roommates gave me a strong sense of deja vu when Jonah, someone I considered a good friend, sat at the wooden table, quiet as a mouse, whilst the pair of idiots gossiped behind my back.

It reminded me of when I lived with Eugene, Jeffrey, Harriet and Cassie. I stood upstairs, on the landing, twigging their secret meeting in the kitchen.

I was not their problem; I was selfish, spoiled and downright spiteful.

They voted to kick me out.

And Eugene, who once promised to run away with me for a fresh start in life, let them speak ill of me because he was too much of a coward to defend me.

Am Isadthat Jonah is another Eugene? No. Not really. I am a satisficer. I do not dwell on shit for too long. My expectations of other people are low enough to get over myself and move on at warp speed.

Am Iangrythat Jonah is another Eugene? One hundred percent, yes. Extremely angry. But strong feelings of annoyance soon dissipated. The jolt of irritation was replaced with possibilities instead.

“It’s late. Why are you all dolled up?” Iris’ shoulder leaned on the doorframe as she watched me wander around the bedroom, futzing with anything I could get my hands on. “Are you going somewhere?”

I liked to make an effort with my appearance, unlike some people I know, who lounged around in unflattering everyday clothes: buckled loafers, classic tabards, slim-leg trousers and asymmetrical tunics with the wordJonesemblazoned across the breast pocket in gold needlework like a badge of proprietorship.

I made brief eye contact with Iris, but I was distracted by the notebook on the bed. Pages of secrets. I had to put it away. “You mentioned Gilbert.”

“Gilbert cooked steak and ale pie and steamed vegetables.” Her beady little eyes focused on my pregnant bump. “You are starting to show.”

“Well, that’s what happens when there is a foreign object growing inside you. Your stomach stretches to accommodate it.” Yes, I was rude and sarcastic. Passive-aggressive interaction is only what she deserved for being such a horrible bitch every time my back was turned. “You can leave. Or did you want to hold my hand and escort me to the kitchen? Perhaps you’d like to spoon-feed me, too.”

“Get over yourself.” Her attention snapped back to my face. “You know what? Starve to death. What do I care, huh?”

Tucking the notebook into my handbag, I stuffed both items inside the wardrobe, away from prying eyes, then locked the doors to prevent intrusive housemates from reading my private thoughts.

“That’s your plan, is it not?” Iris throws her hands left, right and centre in a dramatic display of characteristic quarrelsomeness. “To go on another hunger strike so that Mr Jones can swoop in and save the day. I hate to break it to you, Alice, but the boss is not going to tend to your every need.”

With a flick of the hair, she almost left the bedroom, but the raging lunatic was nowhere near finished.

“Why are you doing this?” Iris is out for my blood. “Gilbert cooks four times a day, and you flat-out refuse to eat.” A hot flash of anger in her eyes. “We should not have to babysit you.”

I had a killer headache. “I never asked you to babysit me.”

“You arepregnant,” she punctuated each syllable like I was too slow for basic English. “Do you want the baby to be undernourished?

“My baby is none of your concern.” Besides, I do not overlook food on purpose. But I am not stupid. The housemates cannot stand the sight of me. I do not trust the chef. He might poison the meals. I would rather cook for myself. “I want to leave. You are standing in the way.”

Iris retreated to the hallway for me to lock the bedroom door.

The locking mechanism is another new gadget, courtesy of Jonah, the back-stabbing gardener and pool technician. I will do anything to keep these rodents out of my private space.

Leaving Iris in the hall to mope and complain, I followed the heady smell of cooked meat and welcomed myself into the well-occupied kitchen. Everyone is here, Jonah, Gilbert, Lilith, Mabel and the grumpy-looking guard. I am sure Iris is close behind.

“Hey.” Jonah is happy to see me. His smile widened, and his eyes lit up when I entered the room. “I saved you a space.” He tapped the chair next to him. “Come and sit with us. The pie is to die for.”

But Jonah, be honest with me.

You arenothappy to see me.

You pretend to be my friend, just like everybody else.

Just like Eugene.

Ripping open the fridge door, I selected a carton of orange juice and poured myself a glass of Vitamin C. “Thanks, but I am not overly hungry.”

“You must eat.” Mabel, who is not a resident here, as she resides in the main house, in my old bedroom, is the first to overstep. “Mr Jones will not tolerate food deprivation. You are pregnant withhischild.”

Yet, the nanny glared at me knowingly, like she knew, deep down, that another man had fathered my unborn baby. “Well, I suppose, when you say it like that, I should tuck in and help myself.”

Swiping Jonah’s plate of long-stemmed broccoli, tenderised steak, flakey pastry, mashed potato and thick gravy, I slid onto the seat beside him and set the glass of orange liquid onto a coaster.

A knife and fork came into my possession. Tucking into layers of unappetising sludge, I smiled at my friend, the man with beguiling eyes. “You don’t mind if I eat this, do you?” Gilbert liked Joanh, so I know this meal is poison free. “I am too lazy to dish up another plate.”

“Um…Yeah.” Jonah scratched the back of his head in perplexity. “Sure. It’s yours now. I can fix a meal.” With that, he picked up a ladle and scooped steamy veggies onto a new dish. “Is there enough pie for me to have another slice?”

Gilbert grunted.

Sensing everyone’s eyes on me, I stabbed the creamy mashed potato with a fork. Again, I am the centre of attention, the focal point of social interaction.

Marvellous.

The new guy, with hard, close-set eyes, brazenly stared at me from across the table as he devoured huge mouthfuls of steak and gravy.

I nearly asked if I had a fucking welly on my head, but then I sized up his strong muscular frame and knew it would be within my best interest to stay schtum.

Good behaviour can only stretch so far, though. I was dying to know why he left the guards’ house and moved into the annexe building with the commoners.

“Did you upset someone?” I asked, and he looked me up and down, his curious gaze pausing on my face. “You do not belong here.”

“Alice!” Lilith is horrified by the overt disrespect ofcertaindinner guests. “Why must you be so rude? Rafe is to be treated with respect.”

Ah, the talented man with a fantastic voice had a name. “Rafe,” I said in a calm and unembarrassed manner. “I am direct, not rude. There is a huge difference.”

Lilith’s face was impossibly purple.

“Inquisitiveness is not a crime.” Forking broccoli into my mouth, I chewed the soft, green stems in momentary silence. “Do you not miss the others?”

“The brothers?” Rafe wondered aloud, and I nodded. “I am not a child. I am a thirty-eight-year-old man. I can sleep alone without feeling homesick.” He patted his lips with a napkin. “My position is temporary. I will not stay here forever.”

That is an interesting response. “Position?”

“Mr Jones is unsatisfied with the verdict of the cause of death given to Edith, the former manager of household affairs,” Rafe explained, and a chorus of theatrical gasps filtered around the table. “He has reason to believe thesuddennessof her departure is suspicious.”

“What?” Jonah’s eyes narrowed at the guard. “How? Edith’s death was a freak accident. She fell down the stairs.”

Rafe nursed a pint of full-fat milk. “That’s all I can say on the matter.”

Chin resting on the heel of my hand, I stared at the brute unblinkingly, then a cursory glance at the wizened childminder, who was unusually quiet this evening.

Mabel loved Edith. They used to socialise daily, drinking tea and coffee in the garden or sampling baked goods in the main house’s kitchen like a bunch of busybodies and timewasters.

I am surprised by Mabel’s silence and quietude. Her lack of curiosity. You’d think she’d be traumatised by the unexpected turn of events.

Why is she not sad?

Why is she not asking questions?

Doesn’t she want to know why the guard is investigating the accident?

Only one thought sprung to mind.

Mabel is already cognisant of the truth.

And she did not give anyone the heads-up.

Traitor.

“Is this a game of Cluedo?” I asked slowly, and Rafe, ever so smoothly, leaned back in the chair as if to prepare himself for an hour-long debate. “Are we participants in a murder mystery?” A playful smile hovered on my lips. “Miss Scarlett with the candlestick in the billiard room.”

“Alice, why would you make such a flippant remark? No one killed Edith. That’s an awful thing to imply.” Jonah is delusional to think Rafe is here for any other reason. The guard is investigating a murder. He is on the hunt for a prime suspect. “Well, at least, I hope that’s not the case. Poor Edith.” He eyed every single dinner guest speculatively to conjecture whether or not the housemates were capable of a gruesome murder. “I am confused.”

And Rafe is utterly impassive.

“I guess this explains the invasion of privacy.” Jonah is affronted, rightly so. “Sorry, Edith, but I never signed up for twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

Thank you, Jonah.

You took the words right out of my mouth.

I am glad someone finally spoke up and called them out.

“I never mentioned murder.” Rafe unlocked his phone, his thumbs tapping the screen rapidly to type a text message. “However, if this were a criminal inquiry, I would be obliged to inform the boss of your interest in forensic criminology.” He glared at Jonah, then at me. “And your desensitisation to death.”

“I could say the same about you,” I said with unshakable confidence, and Rafe sent me a knicker-dropping smirk. Men are so transparent. “Aren’t you immune to the stench of death? You kill for a living, right?”

“Alice!” Iris drew in a ragged breath, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Rafe, I beg that you ignore her. She lacks intelligence and people skills!”

Rafe made it difficult for me to look away. He stared deep into my eyes like he was searching for remnants of my soul, for a heart that he would not find. His thumb swept over his bottom lip, back and forth, in obsessive rumination. “What does a little thing like you know about the firm?”

“I know that the man in charge of your monthly bank balance is the firm’s commander-and-chief until the big bad wolf is released from prison.” Sucking buttery mashed potato smothered in sumptuous beef gravy off the fork, I reached for the glass and washed my throat with orange juice. “I can say, with confidence, if you get a text message to go and kill someone, whether they are innocent or not, you will do so, without hesitation or question, because that’s part of the job. You do as you are told for the simple fact that you and all the other buffoons around here are incentivised by money.” My head tilted to the side in accusation. “Was that unfair characterisation short, succinct and lazy, or do I need to explain in painstaking detail how you are a pathetic lapdog for London’s most legendary criminal empire?”

Jonah’s mouth hung open in shock.

“I’ve had enough!” Mabel slammed her cutlery on the table in a fit of uncontrollable rage. “You need to humble yourself, young lady. Did you not read the non-disclosure agreement? You signed a contract not to discuss confidential information with third parties or coworkers. The onus is on you to demonstrate loyalty and discretion in the absence of co-signatories.”

“I do not work for Mr Jones.” My hands smoothed over my baby bump to emphasise the reality of the situation. “I am the mother of his unborn child, the future of the estate and your livelihood.”

“Horse shit,” the old hag spat. “Master Dominic is the rightful heir. If not the boss’s firstborn son, then Master Logan and Lady Isabella.”

My eyes squinted tightly.

“Your child is a blessing from God, but he will never preside over the institution, and you better get bloody used to it.” Having lost her appetite, Mabel set her plate to the side and rested her elbows on the table, her fingers lacing together. “Pardon the outburst, Rafe. I find it very hard indeed to show restraint in speaking when someone is disrespectful to Mr Jones.” A bead of unshed tears clung to her lower lashes. “I will not stand for it. Everyone knows he is the son I never had.”

I stifled a scoff.

Love.

Mabel had only known Mr Jones for a couple of months.

How can you love him like a son in such a short time?

“Do not worry yourself.” Gilbert tapped Mabel’s thigh underneath the table in what some might consider a heartfelt show of solidarity. “Enjoy your evening meal before it gets cold.”

“Thank you, Gilbert.” Mabel smiled fondly at the chef. “You are too kind.”

I fought the urge to gag. “Isn’t there an employee fraternisation policy?”

“Alice.” Jonah winced profanities under his breath. “Mr Jones did not implement a non-fraternisation policy. If Gilbert and Mabel date in their own time, what’s it to you?” He looked disappointed in me, and I could not fathom why. His mercurial temperament, I confess, is the worst case of mental whiplash I have ever experienced. “Do not be a hypocrite.”

“How am I a hypocrite?” Assuming Jonah meant the night I spent with Mr Jones, I frowned down at my protruding stomach. “There are no strict rules for the boss. He can sleep with whoever he wants.”

Jonah, with lips slightly parted, gestured to himself in silent disbelief.

“Oh?” My mouth formed a circle. “You meantthat.”

“Right.” Jaw throbbing furiously, Jonah forked mashed potato into his mouth with the sour-faced joylessness of an ornery old man. “I amthatmemorable.”

Actually, Jonah is unforgettable, but sadly, it does take a subtle reminder for me to refocus on haphazardly stored information because I have a poor attention span.

Jonah has a great body, beautiful pectoral muscles and solid washboard abs that I love to paint with my hands when he is pounding deeply into me.

I remembered details vividly, the determined pivot of his hips, the lust-filled heat in his dilated eyes, the cords of fibrous tissue in his strong arms, the faint strip of dark hair by his glorious pubic area and the husky sound of his guttural voice just before he emptied himself inside me.

He is a magnificent specimen, well-endowed and bursting with stamina. And I get to enjoy him without limitations.

My favourite pastime.

Yes, I sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to find comfort in another man’s arms whilst Mr Jones is busy at the office. If the father of my child is unable to meet high standards until further notice, I can get my fill elsewhere. For now.

I did not want to cheat, as I was ready to start a family and take life seriously, but what choice did I have? I have a very strong sex drive. The pregnancy has sent my hormones into overdrive. I want it all the time.

“Are you two in bed together?” Rafe looked between us with deep-cut furrows on his forehead. “No offence, Jonah. I like you. But I have to inform the boss.” He swigged at the milk glass, licking the residue of a white moustache across his upper lip. “Command will not take that shit lying down.”

My heart swelled with hope.

Rafe was nonplussed for a beat. “You are pregnant with his kid.”

“You could have fooled me,” I said, followed by a lovely eye roll to the heavens. “I never see the neglectful sod.”

God, I would love to witness Mr Jones in protective armour, sick with green-eyed jealousy and enraged by the thought of another man touching me. I know it’s not going to happen anytime soon, though. And, despite the fact Jonah betrayed me recently when he allowed the housemates to conspire and produce a fugly voodoo doll in my absence, I had no other allies in my corner. I have to keep him in the boss’s good books or I will lose him to the Mafia Cemetery.

My eyelashes fluttered innocently. “Not that it is any of your business, but no, we are not in bed together. Jonah is a friend.” Tearing into the loaf of freshly baked bread, I buttered a slice and dipped the dough into the gravy. “Plus, he is in love with Alexa Warren. He practically fainted when she waltzed through the house. Ask him if you don’t believe me.” My elbow wedged into Jonah’s side. “Tell everyone how you drooled over the serial killer’s wife when she threatened to bitch slap me into next week.”

Rafe’s eyebrows jumped to his forehead in utter surprise.

“No, I am not in love with Warren’s wife!” Jonah tugged the collar of his polo shirt. “And I did not drool! What the fuck? I don’t even know her!” He is bone white, so pale he could puke the regurgitated chunks of his dinner. He shot me a furious look, one that said, nice one, bitch, then stuttered to defend himself. “Please, do not convey second-hand hearsay to Command. I love my job. I would very much like to keep it.”

“Command?” Rafe was in stitches, rubbing his chest as throaty laughter flew out of him like a fog horn. “You know, Jones is a tasty fucker, right?” A tablespoon is the choice of weapon to slice through a piece of meaty pie. “I am talking off his fucking rocker. But Warren?” Hetskedto make an exclamation. Okay, that was sexy. “That’s a whole new ball game that you motherfuckers don’t want to play.”

You clearly do not know me, Pretty Boy.

“If Warren gets wind of your little infatuation? Your job will be the least of your worries.” Rafe resembled a cute hamster with all that food crammed into the pocket of his cheek. “I heard through the grapevine that he isveryprotective of his wife.” He shrugged a disinterested shoulder. “Love is crazy.”

“Perhaps you were rudely misinformed by your unreliable source.” One can assume that Rafe had never met the big boss. He must be a new recruit. I furtively searched for a military chain around his neck and came unstuck. He had a side labret piercing, a single, off-centred hoop on the corner of his bottom lip. “Men seem to gossip more than catty females.”

Yes, I am looking at you, Lilith.

Gilbert got the stink-eye, too.

“Is Warren’s wife always the hot topic of conversation when you all pitch a tent for the night?” Mr Jones’ close relationship with the unpredictable hellcat currently under discussion irritated the bones of me. I hate what I do not understand, and the closeness within their tainted hearts, as odd as it may seem, is widely accepted amongst everyone except me. I do not get the hype. She is average at best and nothing to write home about. I will not even get into the hideous scar on her face. “It must be fun, pillow-talk and sleepovers with a bunch of fully grown men. Do you wear facemasks and paint each other’s toenails?”

“You have a strange sense of humour.” Rafe did not know whether to take me seriously or not. I am a proud enigma. “As for Mrs Warren, she comes up in conversation from time to time.”

Rafe is open and honest in his speech and delivery. I must admit, I liked that about him. We may have more in common than I initially thought.

“The Elite is naturally a point of discussion amongst the brothers because everyone is waiting for a seat at the table.” Rafe went in for a second portion of mashed potato and a dollop of gravy. “I have worked for the institution for over three years. Command is an ignorant twat. He still refers to me as a number.”

Gilbert chuckled rather cynically. “Maybe he’s good with faces but terrible with names. You need to do something special to make yourself memorable.”

“Three years,” I repeated the previous statement. “Where is your chain?”

“You are not as observant as you might think.” Rafe’s folded arms leaned onto the edge of the table, a small gap between him and the plate of half-massacred food. He tugged his shirt sleeve slightly, revealing the loop of short links wrapped around his wrist, the personalised military tags scintillating with a legion of white diamonds. “I prefer to wear it on my wrist. A chain is not so fun when it’s strangling the shit out of you during combat.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I must be going.” Mabel rose to her feet with an empty plate in her hand. “Mrs Warren is due home with Master Dominic any moment. I should prepare him a bath, ready for bed. Lord knows, the little toe-rag loves a bottle of warm milk before the sandman swoops in for a cheeky visit.”

With a fake smile, I waved her off disinterestedly. I, too, dismissed myself from the table as I had no desire to hang around for idle chit-chat with this miserable crowd. I cleared some of the dishes first, scraping leftovers in the bin and dumping plates and cutlery in the dishwasher.

Everyone conversed about maintenance issues in the communal bathroom (drainage problems) whilst I skulked into the dank, lightless vestibule to find a packet of cigarettes. Jonah stored Marlboro Gold in the tweed jacket on the metal coat stand. He won’t mind if I pinch one.

Unlocking the church-style door, I stepped into the starless night with an unlit cigarette balanced between my lips, the cold air whispering through my hair.

It was dark outside, but the decorative solar lights created a safe path for me to walk across the grass toward the swimming pool. It is empty now. The water was drained with a submersible pump to ensure Dominic did not have any mishaps again.

Lighting the end of the cigarette, I eased onto the sun lounger, hearing a series of footsteps in the distance. It might be Mabel, the creepy old hag, lurking in the shadows before returning to the main house. Or maybe security loitered by the bushes. I know they liked to sneak off throughout the night to smoke a joint.

Inhaling a lungful of much-needed nicotine, wafting clouds of smoke out of my face, I kicked my legs out on the lounger, staring hopelessly and dejectedly at the main house.

I could see everything through the bi-folding doors, the luxuriously sleek and modern kitchen with opulent features: custom-built cabinetry, glass-fronted display cases, Electrolux appliances and visions of family dinners.

I imagined it well, the baby in the highchair whilst I chopped fresh vegetables by the granite kitchen island.

Mr Jones is home from work with a suit and tie, a leather briefcase and a handsome smile. He missed me so much. He put an arm around my back, so protective of me, kissed me on the cheek and asked about my day.

I promised to settle the baby early, straight after dinner, for us to have some alone time in one of his many rooms. We can start in the dining room. I want to be on my knees, between his slackened thighs, feeling his bulge beneath my hand, teasing him through his boxer briefs. He is so greedy and impatient when horny. I will take him out, long, thick, hard, veiny and all mine.

My legs squeezed together as waves of arousal fluttered through my body. If I am good to Mr Jones, he will be good to me in return.

The Master Bedroom.

That’s where I belonged.

In his bed.

My eyes opened slowly.

The bubble of excitement faded when I noticed movement in the kitchen. Mabel is back. And she had company. Mrs Warren is by the fridge freezer with Dominic perched on her hip. Look at her stealing the milk, preparing a cup of coffee and making herself at home.

Infuriated by the woman’s sensual image, I blew out a veil of smoke.

Why does she wear bold attire on a regular basis? Impractical high-heeled shoes. Slutty red lipstick. A black dress that left little to the imagination.

Hate her and the tacky outfit but love the long, dark, waist-length hair. The last time I saw her, I am sure natural curls dominated her appearance.

Alexa is dressed too glamorous for a friendly visit to the Jones’ estate. In fact, I would go as far as saying she is positively datable.

You’d never believe she just popped out a baby, not when she is looking like that.

Perhaps a hot suitor waited for her nearby, a gorgeous man in a tuxedo with dinner plans to a five-star restaurant followed by a nice romantic walk along London’s South Bank. A bouquet of roses.

Flicking cigarette ash onto the floor, I brought the filter to my lips and took a long, deep drag. I let the smoke roll around my mouth, to the back of my throat and then blew it out in slow, languid intervals.

Boredom crept in. I tossed the half-smoke cigarette on the ground somewhere, preparing to make a speedy exit, when I spotted a third figure in the kitchen.

Emma Hughes.

I saw red.

Why is she here?

And where is Mr Jones?

Furious at myself for discarding the cigarette hastily, as I could have done with another dose of nicotine to get through this monstrous atrocity, I bolted upright on the recliner and stared pensively into the house.

Emma is by the kitchen archway, dithering uncomfortably with a smartly besuited black man I did not recognise standing behind her.

I thought I took care of that ugly witch.

Luckily for Emma, she did not bear the strain of awkwardness for too long because Mabel went out of her way to make the homewrecker feel at home.

The old, meddlesome cow gestured for Emma to take a seat by the island. She even offered her a cup of coffee, which, by the looks of it, Alexa interfered, as she is the one juggling tea canisters and the baby.

Tears of hot rage saturated my eyes.

Emma smiled. A smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Pain and grief greyed her point of existence. It ate her up inside and made her miserable.

I smiled at that. I did not want her to be happy. That’s the opposite of what she deserved for ruining all of my plans. Let her wallow in self-pity and self-loathing, the interfering bitch. I hope she suffers for all of eternity.

Trying to lip-read, I watched them interact. Alexa broke the ice, her mouth moving rapidly as she told them a story about something seemingly funny.

Emma’s head threw back with a burst of laughter, her one hand clasped to a coffee mug, the other flat on her chest to dispel flutters of feigned amusement.

An overnight bag is on the floor by the homewrecker’s feet, ready for the gaurd to escort her somewhere.

Emma is staying the night.

Mr Jones invited her to the master bedroom.

I had so much anger inside of me.

Lunging off the recliner chair, I stormed across the garden, forcing myself to go in the opposite direction before I did something stupidly unforgivable, like shattering the bi-folding doors with a brick and stabbing the woman to death.

Suppressing the scream in my throat, I extracted the phone out of my pocket and dialled Lynettet’s number. I have sent countless text messages this week without any correspondence. I know she is still mad at me for staying away for so long, not reaching out or prioritising our friendship.

“You have to call me back,” I said frantically to none other than her voicemail box. “I am serious, Lynette. It’s getting worse! I am not in control of the situation, not any more!”

Thrusting a hand through my hair, I sprinted around the side of the house toward the front garden, making sure to duck and dive when the silhouettes of security detail danced across the brightwork.

My hand clutched the phone. “I have to go before someone catches me.”

Ending the call, I ran full-pelt into the murky darkness, the heavy, determined footfalls kicking up mud and grass in my wake. I will alert security if I go to the main gates, so I took a detour, the longer, scarier route, until the prison-like fence came into view.

Out of breath and painting like a dying dog on the hunt for water, I folded at the waist to refuel my lungs, to inject crystals of clarity into my brain.

I had to get out of here. I needed a friend to talk some sense into me and reassure me that everything would go to plan, accordingly, if I were patient enough to wait my turn.

Convinced that I would lose Mr Jones, I tapped the fence with shaky hands, looking for the broken slat. One popped free, the magical porthole to long-awaited freedom, a life without infinite eyes and critical judgement. I slipped behind the rustic wood, squeezed through the gap and threw myself into the woodland forest of oak and petrichor.

And that’s where I stayed, for minutes, possibly hours, whilst I walked off frustration to get to Central London. I was not fearful for my life. I doubt anyone would notice that I left the estate.

They never do.

I am not even on the syndicate’s radar.

A taxi is my salvation. I journeyed through the streets, tourist central and congested traffic in mute silence.

The driver, with his eyes pinned to the road, is unsociable, too, which suited me just fine because I had no energy for small talk. I could not even muster a fake smile.

I left the estate without my handbag, so I could not afford the taxi fare. The driver would be inconsolably angry. He might even threaten to call the police. But his booming voice did not touch my ears when I jerked the passenger side door open and dashed across the busy road before he could finalise the trip.

Bright lights blinded my vision.

A car horn blared.

Holding my stomach protectively, I dodged an oncoming vehicle and sprinted through crowds of people on the pavement. I vanished into thin air, knowing the taxi driver would not chase me. They never do. It’s not worth the stitch.

Hamlets Way is on the agenda. I got to the high-rise block of flats in one piece, albeit breathless and panting loudly. I used the sleeve of my cardigan to mop the sweat on my brow, then headed along the garden path toward the main door.

Fortunately, one of the residents exited the building as I approached, holding the door open for me to head inside.

Checking the address on my phone, I ascended the concrete staircase one flight after another until vertigo fluctuated equilibrium. I am going to murder this woman when I get my hands on her.

Lynette’s front door is within reach. I dragged myself over the steep threshold and practically collapsed onto the welcome mat.

“Lynette?” My fist hammered on the windowpane. “Look, I am sorry, okay? I am the worst friend on the planet. I get it. But can we put our differences aside for one night? I could really use some advice right now.” Ear to the door, I listened for any sounds or movements. “Emma is back. I don’t think she went away. I will bury her in our garden if you do not talk me out of it. I am not joking.”

Nothing.

Slumping against the door in defeat, I sat on the floor, with legs outstretched in front of me and the pregnant belly living rent-free on my lap.

Resigned to a filthy floor is not how I imagined the start of my new life.

Minutes ticked.

Lynette did not come to my rescue.

Twenty-eight minutes later, after a prolonged chat with myself, I left the high-rise building with a lump in my throat.

I am alone again.

God, I hate that word. Alone. Just me, by myself, in this big, scary old world.

Walking across the quiet, empty street in a daze, I drifted into Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park Nature Reserve, the bottom of my shoes leaving footprints along the muddy cobblestone path.

Impenetrable hazy grey fog and atmospheric droplets of condensation enshrouded acres of flat graves and granite gravestones.

I gravitated to the moss-covered headstone by the old sycamore tree and crashed knees-first onto the ground.

And then I sensed her, the woman who liked to play hide-and-seek. Her presence raised the hair on the nape of my neck.

“You were looking for me.” Lynette’s familiar voice echoed behind me. “I should leave you here to slobber and cry. You are not a nice person, Bleu.”

My eyelids closed.

“You hurt everyone around you.” Her strong, stern voice raked goose bumps over my flesh. “Your father raised you better.”

Yes, Mr Murphy did everything he could to keep me on the straight and narrow. Too bad I was destined to fail from the start.

“He is in love with someone else. I am going to lose him to that pathetic whore!” My eyes snapped open. “You promised me that everything was going to be okay. You told me I could have whatever I wanted if I worked hard enough to get it.”

Turning to face her, I rose to my feet with cautious footsteps, wiping mud off my knees. I studied the woman with sharp intenseness. Her crystal blue eyes, framed with the longest of fair lashes, never wavered. She held my stare courageously, the white blouse hanging heavily off her shoulder, the denim jeans grazed at the knees, the cute ankle boots submerged in something dark and wet.

“Oh, Bleu.” Her short, ash-blonde hair moved imperceptibly as her head shook. “What am I going to do with you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I argued futilely, the lump in my throat increasing in size. “Mr Jones is with Emma. He chose her over me. I have to do something before it’s too late. I will not lose. Not this time.”

“Get over it already!” Lynette’s no-room-for-bullshit voice ricocheted throughout the eerie graveyard. “I am not interested in Mr Jones and his sidepiece. I came here for you.Youare what troubles me. I need to knowyouare okay.”

“Well, I am not okay.” My body trembled with adrenaline and aftershocks. “I would be okay if she would leave us alone. I had everything figured out, Lynette.” My bottom lip rolled between my teeth. “It was my turn to be fucking happy!”

“Bleu…” Lynette breathed out an exasperated sigh, her hands rubbing on her thighs to generate heat. “Mr Jones is not the father of your child. Go to the doctor. Let him help you.”

“No.” My chin lifted defiantly. “Elijah is not my ticket out of misery. He cannot provide for me or the baby. I need a good life. No, Iwanta good life. Ideserveit. I have tasted it now, the money, clothes and fancy cars. I am not prepared to give up all of that luxury, not for some spoiled, selfish fucking cow!”

“Elijah is a doctor. He is on good money.” Lynette twirled the stem of a dead rose between her delicate fingers. “Think about the baby. He deserves to know his real father. You don’t want him to grow up and resent you for lying to him, do you?”

The indifferent look on my face never faltered. I am not to be persuaded.

Lynette dropped the dead rose onto the moss-covered headstone. I watched the crumbling petals descend toward the ground in slow motion, with a strange sense of familiarity twirling the depths of my stomach.

“You need help, Darling,” Lynette whispered, her warm breath expelling a cloud of mist into the night. “Don’t you want Henry to be proud of you?”

Taken aback by the shift in the air, I choked on a sharp intake of breath, stumbling out of her reach. “Do not speak of my father as if you know him.”

“But I do know him.” Lynette crouched by the graveside with a sad smile, her hand brushing dead grass aside to read the epitaph on the weathered headstone. “Henry is the love of my life.”

Treasured Memories

of

A Dear Wife And Mother

Lynette Murphy

Always In Our Hearts

Heart thrashing painfully against my rib cage, I read the words written in memory of my mother on the cracked, weathered headstone with no understanding of how she died or how she got there.

“But you partied with me…” A trickle of sweat danced along my spine. “You had sex with those guys we met at the bar. You came to Alice’s home with me…” My brain shook violently as scenes played out inside my head. “We killed Alice and her boyfriend. We buried them in our enchanted garden. I know you were there! I saw you! You had blood on your hands!”

“You did that all by yourself,” she told me with a pinched expression of sympathy. “I only show up when you look for me.”

No, I did not believe it.

This cannot be real.

I am dreaming.

What is happening to me?

“Henry,” I said numbly, the word foreign to my tongue. “My father is dead.”

“You killed him,” she reminded me, and I felt a twinge of regret in my stomach. “You killed him to unburden yourself.”

“No, I made Mr Murphy a promise. He wanted to die. He asked me to do it long before dementia took him from me!” Grasping a fistful of my hair, I tugged harshly to relieve the tension in my head. “Mr Murphy did not want to be remembered for an old, incompetent man who pissed and shit himself! He wanted to be remembered as a young, happy, competent parent who worked hard and loved even harder! That’s what he wanted-what he demanded! I should know! I paid attention! Not you!” I accused, the venom in my voice laced with irony. “You left him, Lynette!”

“And why did I leave him, Bleu?” Rising to her feet, she trekked over the mud-spattered plot and squared up to me, too close for my liking. “Go ahead. Tell me how I got in a box. Ask who put me there!”

“How the fuck should I know? I have no memories of you…” Her white blouse is covered in dry blood. I never noticed that earlier. “You like that outfit. I have never seen you in anything else.”

Lynette never looked away.

But I did. I ripped my gaze away and stared at the dead flower on the floor, the same flower I tossed into her casket on the morning of her funeral. My father placed a hand on my shoulder. He understood me. He forgave me. He shielded me. From the truth of what I did.

“You got my rose…” My head pounded at the temples as bewilderment burrowed deep into my thoughts. “Am I insane?”

“You were upset.” Her hand smoothed over the back of my head lovingly, almost motherly, as she spoke directly into my ear. “I argued with your father. You did not like that. You thought I hurt him too much, that he would be better off without me.” A weary breath whispered through her lips. “I suppose I should have noticed the signs. You idolised your father. He was your special person. You did not like to see him sad. That troubled you, didn’t it?”

My head shook in denial.

“You were too young to be so cruel,” she croaked, her finger curling hair behind my ear. “Where did I go wrong, Darling?”

My breaths came out in short, hot pants. I don’t recognise this feeling in my stomach.

“It was sunny outside. I spent too long in the heat…” Her voice drifted into the distance as I recalled my mother by the willow tree in the garden of our old family home. “…I had sunstroke…”

Yes, she went inside the house, and that is when I heard them in the process of declaring a violent war, Lynette and Henry, screaming and yelling at one another. I tried to ignore them. I closed the back door, sat on the step and covered my ears, but they were too loud.

“You threatened him with divorce,” I said, thinking of the tears in my father’s eyes when he stormed out of the house and strode down the street. He never looked back. He did not ask if I was okay. “You meant it.”

“I did not,” Lynette defended herself. “It’s normal for married people to fight sometimes. I needed to cool off. He needed to cool off. We’d have forgiven each other eventually…But then, I fell asleep on the sofa. The last thing I remember is you standing above me with a kitchen knife gripped tightly in your hand.”

My eyes dipped to the red stain on her white blouse. “That’s why Mr Murphy threw me into a mental asylum.” No, I will not speak of that place. “A child capable of murder did not belong in this world without precaution or guardianship.”

“Henry fought tirelessly for you to evade the young offenders’ institution. You should have stayed in police custody. Perhaps you owe your father gratitude for the psychiatric hospital. You had a lucky escape.”

I refused to believe a word she had to say. “You know nothing about my relationship with Mr Murphy.”

“I know he took care of you until he worked himself into the ground,” she said, sharp and cruel. “You made him sick, so sick he could not sleep at night. He wasted his entire life trying to keep you out of trouble. Not that someone as selfish as yourself could possibly understand the sacrifices he made to protect such an ungrateful soul.”

A single tear rolled down my cheek.

“Why do you cry?” Lynette caught the bead of nostalgia with the pad of her finger and examined it closely. “Psychopaths are emotionless.”

“I am not a psychopath,” I said furiously, and she laughed at me because, apparently, this was funny, a humorous matter for those with a heart of pure stone. “You insolent bitch. Do not mock me!”

“What are you going to do, huh? Put me underground with the others.” Tapping her chin with a pointer finger, she lost herself in a moment of musing. “Wait. You did that already, didn’t you? My rotten remains have been a source of nutrients for the worms for as long as I can remember.”

I would bury her beneath the grass if she were not already dead. “You are not real.”

“That would be factually correct. I am a figment of your imagination. I do not exist. I am here because you created me.” Tucking unruly tendrils of hair behind her ears, she hugged herself at the waist, trudging toward the old sycamore tree with her head hung despondently. “You can send me away whenever you want.” Another sad smile graced her lips. “I do not have the power to stop you.”

“Then, leave.” Huge tight knots swelled in my throat. “And do not come back.”

Lynette paused by the big tree, her fragile fingers drawing patterns on the dense bark. “For what it’s worth, I still love you, Darling.” Her body drifted behind the tree. “You must know that.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I willed her to get out of my head, to go away and never return, for I never wanted to see her again, not in this life or the next.

When I braved the storm, one eyelid at a time, I returned to a cold, lifeless, noiseless cemetery.

My mother is gone.

More confused than ever before, I rushed through the array of gravestones, leaving the memories of Lynette Murphy in the ground with her remains.

When I got back to Central London, I scrounged some money outside the tube station to get home.

Mr Jones’ estate is the only place I feel safe now. I had to stay behind those gates.

Not bothering to check my bedroom upon return, I headed for the staff shower room, stripped out of the clothes and scrubbed every inch of my skin underneath the scalding hot spray.

Turning off the shower, I wrapped a towel around my body, stepped onto the fluffy mat and tiptoed toward Jonah’s bedroom on the left side of the annexe building.

I had to be careful not to get caught now that Rafe was sniffing for information about ourfriendship.

Hopefully, the other guards that monitor the surveillance footage will not be so quick to jump to conclusions when they rewatch the tape and see me, half-naked and desperate for sex, prancing into different rooms. Or if they do watch the tape and witness more than they bargained for, they might be too disinterested to report it to the boss.

I smiled at the camera, then flipped the cameraman the bird.

Jonah’s bedroom is dark, with not a speck of light in sight. I locked the door behind me, lost the towel to the floor and crept onto the double bed. He is sound asleep, the duvet tangled between his legs.

“Babe,” I breathed in his ear, straddling his waist, splaying my fingers over his bare chest. “I need you.” My hips rocked against his groin to urge him on. “Wake up.”

“Alice,” Jonah groaned sleepily, rubbing his eyes to remove irritation. “Where did you go? I was worried about you.”

“You needn’t bother yourself.” Hands creeping into his pyjama bottoms, I palmed his semi-hard cock and stroked him from root to tip to get him ready for me. “You know I like to go for a walk at night. It helps to clear my head.”

His hands latched onto my head as he inched closer to kiss me. His tongue flicked into my mouth. It was slow, sensual and intimate, the opposite of what I liked and enjoyed, but I let him take the lead, or rather, let him think that he was in control.

“I need you to fuck me,” I moaned into his mouth as my hand worked dexterously to feed his cock into my tight pussy. “Fuck me like you hate me, Jonah.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Brad

Vincent’s Jacobean wood-panelled reggae joint is empty, except for the older man togged up in studs and leather behind the bar. Clayton Warren paused with a dishcloth on the wooden countertop when our eyes connected. And judging by the whiff of condescension, he is not impressed by the magnificent entrance of the syndicate.

Men in tailored suits stepped around me and dispersed through the visitors’ lounge in a timely fashion to take the weight off their feet and relax in leather-worn booths. Most of them sparked up within minutes, the room permeating with plumes of white smoke and boisterous laughter.

Ska music amplified in the background, the heavy base vibrating beneath my feet as I strolled toward the bar for a drink.

Grandpa Warren, who lacked social polish, was not happy to see me. His voice was thick and strained when offering to open a bar tab for the brothers. “Jones,” he grunted. “What can I get you?”

“Johnnie Walker,” I said, chipper, thumbing through prestigious debit cards, and he automatically reached for the gold-label reserve whiskey bottle on the wall-mounted liquor shelf. “Blue.”

Clayton vacillated between the bottles before he selected the rightful alcoholic beverage. He splashed exquisitely blended scotch whiskey into a rauk heavy tumbler, ripped the card to pre-authorise the transaction out of my hand, then moseyed along to distance himself from the obligation of exchanging pleasantries.

Wanker.

My phone vibrated.

Emma: I feel guilty.

Slipping a toothpick through my lips, I licked it to the corner of my mouth and typed a monosyllabic response.

Me: Why?

Emma: I am at the estate, unpacking an overnight bag.

Me: And?

Emma: My father is dead. I should be crying, not stressing over which lingerie set I should wear to bed.

Before I drove away from the wedding venue this morning, Emma rushed back to the car, her eyes wet with tears, her face ghostly white, and word-vomited the tragedy of her father’s death. Her mother, Martha, witnessed the ghastly ordeal. Hamish had what could only be described as a mental breakdown and threw himself out the window: blunt force trauma to the head. He died before his brain registered the impact.

Yes, I feigned surprise and comforted Emma with protective hugs and forehead kisses because silent affection was the only apology I could offer without losing her in the process. I have done that dance already, the back and forth.

Emma never broke down, though. If anything, she looked partially relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders, like she could breathe properly for the first time.

My girl’s relief provided solace. I know-what I did not in the Hughes’ suite-that killing Hamish was the right decision.

Let’s hope Martha is not an issue in the foreseeable future.

Me: Green.

Emma: Huh?

Me: I want you to wear the ivy green lace I bought you so that I can peel it off your sexy body with my teeth.

Emma: Brad!

Me: What?

Emma: Focus.

Me: I am sorry for your loss.

Emma: Very sensitive.

Me: What do you want me to say? The guy was a scrawny schmuck. I am not sorry that he is dead. He did his family a favour.

Emma: Am I a horrible person?

Me: You are by no means reprehensible.

Emma: That does not answer the question.

Me: You want to know if a heartless contract killer is fazed by the dead man’s completed suicide and the estranged daughter’s inhibited grief…Ask me that question again when I am older, wiser and ready to repent.

Emma: Fair point.

Me: I do not think you are a horrible person for the indifferent energy subsequent to your father’s death. Now, can we get back to the underwear?

Emma: I did not pack green lingerie.

Me: You can sleep naked.

Emma: Or I can borrow a T-Shirt.

Me: Minx. You planned this.

Emma: Guilty as charged.

Me: What’s mine is yours, Sweetheart.

“Sweetheart?” Vincent hummed scratchily, his lips far too close to my ear, to my cheek, and I flinched at the abruptness of his touchy-feely nearness, the phone launching into the air and skittering across the bar top. “What an adorable hypocorism.”

I will not bite.

Vincent slid onto the bar stool with casual finesse, one foot on the steel footrest, the other on the hardwood floor. All black is today’s assemblage of designer fabrics, the top button of his shirt undone, a slither of his chest. “Who knew that you could be so…” His lips pursed. “Lovable?”

“You’re a fine one to talk.” Retrieving the phone, I shoved it into my trouser pocket and stared deadpan at him. “Angel?”

Vincent smiled darkly, dismissively, clicking down Grandpa Warren. “Bourbon.”

“On the rocks?” Clayton uncapped a bottle of Blanton’s Original and scooped ice cubes into crystal glass, then placed the concoction onto the creatively folded napkin. “Anything else?”

Vincent disregarded the grumpy old sod with a lazy flick of the hand. “You have been very friendly lately.” He sipped at the glass, his tongue smoothing the bourbon’s rich flavour across the underside of his upper lip. “I have yet to interpret whether the sudden comradeship is genuine or ingenuine.”

“I am a friendly person.” My stare homed in on the bestudded elephant in the room. “I hate him,” I muttered into the whiskey tumbler, the sour-faced grandfather futzing with a glasswasher basket of pint glasses in the background. “He is arrogant.”

“Arrogance runs in the family. You tolerate my brother’s exaggeration of self-worth.” Vincent put an unlit gold-filtered cigarette to his lips and lit the end with Cartier’s signature lighter flame. “Why is Liam exempt from detestation if his kin are not?”

“Rephrase, I love your brother.” Warren is allowed a free pass for the chip on his shoulder simply because I said so. “I can barely stomach his annoyingly self-centred younger brother.” My round eyes goaded the pestiferous demon stirring within him. “As for the blood of kinfolk?” My lip curled with utter distaste. “What a disappointment they turned out to be.”

He leaned his elbow on the bar top, his hand cupping his chin as he stared pensively at me. “Are you embittered?”

“A persistent feeling of animosity toward an evil-intentioned individual that makes a special effort to hurt my brother in arms?” The look of shock on Warren’s face that day, minutes before the arrest, when he learnt of his relation to the fucking donkey behind the bar, I will never forget it, not for as long as I live, the pain and confusion in his eyes, the anger and disappointment in his voice, the burn of his brother’s betrayal. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

Vincent wore a tight, sombre expression. “Clayton is my grandfather.”

“I have no respect for him,” I said, loud for the man in heavy black leather to hear. He looked up from beneath harshly gathered eyebrows, an angry snarl on his lips. “Problem?”

“Yes.” Clayton’s sharp eyes were ablaze with aversion. “You.”

“Me?” A toothpick balanced on my bottom lip. “What the fuck did I do?”

The irritable plonker prepared a round of drinks for the men: Manhattan, old-fashioned, sazerac and vieux carre. “Your name is dishwater by association.”

“Hey, I wear my reputation like a badge of honour.” My hands lifted in mock surrender. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle the proximity of a God.”

Grandpa Warren fumed with smouldering anger, his chest puffing out to exert dominance, the alpha wannabe twat. “I ought to-”

“Clayton,” Vincent intervened before the dispute became a human slaughterhouse. “I kindly ask that you remain inconspicuous in difficult situations. Jones is acting boss by force majeure. If you behave disgracefully, the syndicate will turn against me by default.” It was only then I noticed the silence in the room. The brothers are quiet, watchful and on guard. “Is that what you hope to achieve?”

“You expect me to stay calm with that son of a bitch in the room.” Clay, staring dejectedly at his youngest grandson, is shaking with pent-up rage and bitterness. “He killed my son.”

“Inaccurate information. You know Liam killed his father.” Vincent’s gold-ringed fingers strangled the bourbon glass. He brought the rim to his lips, downed the brownish liquid in one swallow and immediately poured another one. “Jones is not to blame for my brother’s uncontrollability and impulsiveness. If you cannot handle this knowledge, leave the bar and let the syndicate fend for themselves.”

Clayton’s mouth opened to debate with his opponent, but the haughty personage of his grandson was enough for him to back down. He flung the chequered tea towel over one shoulder, swiped the Jameson en route to the staff-only door and scuttled along like a long-legged rat.

Happy to see the back of him, I kept an eye on the Blanton Original. “That bottle looks very lonely.”

“Help yourself.” Vincent blew a cloud of smoke. “Clayton is not over Raymond’s death. I fear he will never forgive Liam for that merciless hit.”

“Your father was lucky.” Fortunately for Raymond, his firstborn son and heir was young, immature and wet behind the ears when he stumbled upon Raymond Warren’s seignorial mansion on that fateful night. If he’d found his father later in life, he’d have done far more than fire a bullet. “I know Warren like the back of my hand. A gun would have been the least of your father’s problems if he were still with us. Your brother would have sentenced him to a life of chains and darkness.”

“I suppose.” Vincent’s finger tapped the bourbon glass along to the recurrence of music notes. “Do you have a contingency plan for the Italians? That’s why you requested a meeting, is it not?”

I nodded, slow and introspective.

“Very well.” He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray, then got to his feet as if the slight movement exhausted him. “Do you want to see my toys?”

“That depends,” I said, wary of the man’s ulterior motives. “If the multifunctional thingamabob is primarily used to facilitate human sexual pleasure, I would rather not.”

Vincent gazed at me in obvious wonderment.

“Look, I will not pretend to understand your genre. You are into some freaky shit.” A kink fest of sorts. “But I am not sold on erect silicone and masked nymphomaniacs … Satyromaniacs?” My brow arched in question, and he spaced out with hard-pressed lips. “Help me out, Vincy Boy.”

“Jones?” Vincent stepped closer, so close I could smell a hint of cologne on his neck and a splash of bourbon on his breath. “Are you asking me if I derive pleasure from hypersexual men?”

“Or women,” I recapitulated cautiously, as I did not wish to offend the man. “Maybe both? Not that it matters. You know what? I am high as a fucking kite. Allow it.” Hot and bothered, I motioned for him to lead the way. “Show me the dildo collection.”

Vincent regarded me with unreserved amusement. “You are extremely tense and uncomfortable,” he accused, and I did not deny it. “Why?”

Scratching my neck, I removed the toothpick from my lips. “I am not into it.”

“Into what?” he queried anticipatorily, and when I pinned him with a pointed look, he laughed darkly. “Humour me.”

Christ, I might be sweating. “Well, I am not, you know…”

He stared, waiting.

“I am not gay,” I whispered to be respectful of the others, to be mindful of Jax, who recently lost his boyfriend, Alfie. “It’s not for me.”

“Have you ever tried it?” he asked, curious, and I did not need to respond. He could see the truth written all over my horrified face. “Then, how do you know it’s not for you? You might surprise yourself.”

“Just…” My hand waved toward the staff-only door-my ticket out of this dangerous predicament. “I am not having this conversation with you, Vincent. Hurry up and show me the toys so that we can get down to business.” His mirthful smirk clawed right under my skin. “You do this to fuck with me.”

He made a noncommittal noise.

Then it dawned on me like a sledgehammer to the head.

How did I miss all the signs?

Vincent Warren got the hots for me.

“It’s not going to happen.” Peeling his fingers off my elbow, I placed a hand on his chest and urged him to step back. “This, you, me, us, is way beyond the boundary of what I am into. Believe it or not, I am a tits-man. The bigger, the bouncier, the better…” His wide smile and mischievous eyes made my hackles rise. “You are starting to piss me off.”

“Jones, for the last time, I am not sexually or romantically attracted to men.” Vincent’s hand ironed out the crease on the front of my shirt, his tentative fingers lingering on my cotton-clad pec. “I crave the opposite sex. Much like yourself, I am partial to a nice pair of breasts but particularly fond of a woman with a shapely arse.” He looked at me then, deep into my eyes, into my soul, the intrusive bastard. “Even if I were attracted to men, I would not cast you a sideways glance.” His gaze roved over me, head to toe, with lazy scrutinisation. “You are not my type.”

Well, that was a harsh slap to the face. “What are you talking about?” I am a godly temple to be worshipped, a statue of sculpted perfection for those with appreciative hands and eyes. “I am everyone’s fucking type.”

“Please, I would rather fuck my fist for all of eternity than entertain someone with an ego as big as yours,” Vincent said, deepening the knife in my back. “I have vertiginous migraines whenever you enter a room. You are, for lack of a better word, intolerable.”

I disregarded the man’s long list of critical feedback. It took more than a few petty insults for me to take shit personally. “Why do you annoy me?”

“You make it easy for me to do so.” Vincent is ready to slaughter me with defecating wisecracks but propitiated himself. “You have convinced yourself that I am gay or bisexual. I should contest this matter. However, in light of unsubstantiated accusations, I do not have the energy to convince you otherwise.”

Downing remnants of whiskey in one mouthful, I set the empty glass down on the bar top with a satisfied sigh. “What about Donny?” Yes, I went there because I had to understand the dynamics of their close-dare I say, “intimate”-relationship. “What’s the deal with you and him?”

The question took him aback. He recoiled almost indiscernibly, his wandering eyes a tell-tale sign of disconcertment. “Donny is a good friend of mine.”

It was my turn to wait.

“It’s an immensely complicated tangle of grey areas, Jones.” His frosty voice was enriched with self-control. “A man like you could never understand.”

Well, that was a jibe if I ever heard one. “A man like me?”

“Obstinate. Ignorant.” He re-capped the bourbon bottle and placed it behind the bar for later. “Take your pick.”

My lips curved in anticipation. “Try me.”

“Another time,” Vincent dismissed the notion of possible love interests, his piercing eyes locked on something-or someone-behind me. “We have guests.”

Peering over one shoulder, I thought I’d see Josh or Nate, as the troublesome duo promised to be here on time, but the familiar face of the family’s rebel greeted me instead. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Behave,” Logan joked, throwing his arms around me for a much-anticipated hug. “Vincent told me to meet him here.”

Relieved to see Logan in the flesh after weeks of hardly any contact, I embraced him with love, then stepped back to give him some space.

“You cannot be trusted in the house without parental guidance.” Vincent turned to me, slightly miffed at his nephew. “Logan raided the wine cellar. I almost killed him.”

I passed the lad a disappointed look.

“I apologised,” Logan stuttered, his once baby-faced countenance dusted with spatters of dark facial hair. “Look, I had one bottle-”

“A six-litre bottle of Ornellaia’s famous Vendemmia d’Artista,” Vincent explained in a bored voice, and Logan winced yet another apology. “It’s no bother. I can take the hit. A twenty-five-year-old celebratory edition at the coast of forty-nine grand is of no consequence. Is it, Logan?”

Decidedly fucked off, I slapped the boy around the head. “What the fuck am I going to do with you?” I barked, and he flinched, rubbing the ache I had inflicted on his ear. “You had to leave Warren Manor for bad behaviour, ransacking the minibar and stealing sports cars. You crashed the Rimac. You, staying with Vince, is supposed to be redemptive.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard the best.” Vincent extracted a waxy green apple from his trouser pocket and wiped it on the lapel of his shirt. “He is failing college.”

Warren is going to kill me. “Logan…”

“I am trying,” Logan came at me with excuse after excuse. “My attendance is better. I am paying attention during lectures and-”

“Having sex in public libraries,” Vincent snitched whilst aloofly peeling the apple with his trusty switchblade. “Perhaps it is time to resort to violence.”

Logan paled.

“You’re having sex?” I asked, and the lad’s pale cheeks turned the darkest shade of purple. “We need to have a chat.”

“I am safe,” he replied, too embarrassed to face me, to look me in the eye. “I, you know, wear condoms and stuff…”

“And stuff,” I repeated, and he rubbed a hand down his face in humiliation. “Go and sit with Jax and the others. You are not allowed out of my sight.”

Logan huffed snippily. “Can I get an orange juice first?”

“No.” I mirrored his piss-poor attitude. “You can bastard wait.” He stormed past me with an eye roll, shrugging the backpack’s handle over his shoulder. “And Logan?”

He paused with his back to me.

“Say thank you to Uncle Vince for the welcoming hospitality, but you won’t be staying there anymore,” I told him, and he visibly tensed. “Your ass is coming home with me.”

“Are you serious? So, that’s my life now?” Logan came back with long, powerful strides that ate up the distance antagonistically. “Everyone is gonna shove me from pillar to post. Nice.” He snarled down his nose at me. “I know when I am not welcome. Sorry for being such a fucking burden.”

“That reverse psychology shit is not going to work on me,” I said angrily, the blood in my veins pumping hot. “You are getting too big for your boots. I have been patient. You are Warren’s boy. That means something. But enough is enough.”

His jaw steeled.

“You were destined to fail the minute that crack-brained whore of a mother shit you out and left you in public squalor to fend for yourself.” My heart quickened in speed as I willed myself to not lose control. “You remember, don’t you? The insalubrious place you once called home, with druggies and sex workers in and out and a mother that was too jacked up to see if you were still alive? Have you forgotten how it felt to sleep in a cold, locked room at night with the fear of strangers standing over your fucking bed? Or, wandering around the streets in the early hours of the morning to avoid Cyril Broderick’s belt? What about dumpster diving, huh? Isn’t that how you found food? You pilfered garbage and other people’s leftovers.”

Logan’s face looked uncomfortably red and hot when the brothers chortled jocosely in the background.

“Yet, here you are, with a second chance in life, ready to throw it all away. And for what? A quick joy ride. A hangover from Hell. A cheap fucking thrill with some down and out on school grounds? Raise the goddamn bar,” I added, and his head hung in shame. “Do you think Warren will get out of prison and put you on a fucking pedestal when he finds out you got kicked out of college because alcohol and sex took precedence over education? No, he will throw you back in the gutter for bringing shame on his family. That’s where you belong, right? With all the other nobodies of the world.” To get him off the path of self-destruction, I had to be cruel to be kind. “Tell me, I am wrong.”

His mouth was agape. “Did those insults make you feel good about yourself?”

“Don’t ever forget where you came from or who helped you along the way,” I said quite poetically, and oddly enough, he took advice on board with a stiff nod, albeit with reluctance. “You are confined to house arrest. You are not permitted to leave the estate. If you do not like the rules, you can pack your shit and take yourself back to the borough.” Giving him a firm shove in the shoulder, forcing him out of my reach, I tossed the toothpick over the bar, the short, pointed piece of wood landing in the bottle cap catcher. “How’s that for strict parenting?”

Logan maintained eye contact for a harrowing twenty-three seconds before he tsked to himself and embarked on the walk of shame.

He got to the booth by the jukebox, dumped the backpack under the table and straddled the leather stool in a strop.

A string of silence unravelled.

All eyes are on Logan.

And he felt it, the sting of everyone’s scrutiny, his restless movements, foot taps to the floor and finger thumps to the table, changing dramatically in tempo.

I had an untalkative conversation with Vincent.

What are we going to do with him?

Time will tell.

Leaving the visitors’ room of sociable brothers, airborne marijuana and off-beat rhythms, I followed Vincent into the employees-only door and ventured down the white-painted hallway. He bypassed many rooms to reach the janitorial closet overstocked with chlorine bleach.

Interesting.

“Should I be worried?” I asked, watching him move the floor-to-ceiling shelving unit to reveal a stainless-steel bulletproof door. “Vincent?” A green light appeared above the door, the biometric facial recognition system granting him access with a robotic welcome message. “Show off.”

His smirk was boyish.

In his shadow, I relied on my senses as we took the narrow staircase underground, sinking further into the abyss with peripatetic inclination.

My hands were glued to the wall for support. I did not trust the levels of steepness. “Vincent,” I complained, unable to see anything in the dark. “If I miss a step and fall flat on my handsome face, I will skin you alive. Make no bones about it. I am mean with a blade.”

“You will speak of this to no one,” he laid down the law, and strangely, I felt a bubble of excitement in my stomach. “The Elite, I trust, but a firm belief in the reliability, truth and ability of superiority does not extend to the rest of the institution.” A set of double doors opened in the dark hall, and suddenly, the motion detector electrified bright fluorescent lights. “Understand?”

Too stunned to respond, I inspected Vincent’s secret headquarters from the doorway in slack-jawed dumbfoundedness.

The cavernous room of stainless-steel workstations and keypad-locked wall cabinets was aesthetically pleasing. A circular, mixed-media conference table with high-tech electronics and fancy office chairs dominated the middle section (It looked brand new, as if no one had ever utilised the space for intended business meetings) and the floor-to-ceiling compartment of black attire (shirts, trousers, suit jackets, leather shoes and boxer briefs) appeared to be strategically placed like a uniform for special weapons and tactics officers.

“Christ.” My eyes catalogued everything in sight with keen interest. “What the fuck is this place?”

Vincent peeled out of his suit jacket. “My sanctuary.”

“Right.” My feet carried me through the fluorescent cave of esoteric weaponry, high-quality knives and echo suppressors. “You have been holding out on us.”

“No, I have been consistently frank since the day I met you.” Leaving the suit jacket on the workstation by the display cabinet of semi-automatic guns and sniper rifles, he washed his hands with soap and water in the commercial sink. “You have a short attention span.”

“You are the real deal, huh?” I asked, not that I required an answer to the question. The drawer of execution methods (metal syringes and chemical bottles: midazolam, vecuronium bromide and potassium chloride) is self-explanatory. “Apothecary?”

“The States.” He snatched the unopened vial of midazolam out of my hand. “That is to put someone to sleep. Would you like to volunteer as tribute?”

“Have a fucking day off.” My brain inventoried the heavy-duty shelves of ammunition belts and magazine speedloaders. “Explain the drug combination.”

“One syringe consists of three components.” Vincent inserted the vial in the foam tray of sixty-seven compartments and shut the drawer. “Sedation, paralysation and cardiac arrest. It’s quick but effective.” He was curious about the syndicate’s code of conduct. “What does the institution prefer?”

“Heroin overdose is successful in producing a desired result.” Dr Death, the brains behind pharmaceutical science, specialised in the drug development process. I simply helped myself to disposable syringes and stabbed some fuckers. “Nate is the pharmacist. Ask him.”

Vincent hummed lowly.

“All you need is a Batmobile.” Fumbling with a weaponised executive pen, I twisted the piston converter clockwise to uncloak its partially serrated blade. “Bruce Wayne does not have shit on you.”

“Do you have a sensory imbalance?” He is unsettled by the smallest of issues. “Why the compulsion to touch everything? Undiagnosed haphemania?”

“Punch in the eye?” I retorted, and his eyes did a rapid sweep of the ceiling. “Excuse me for showing an interest.” Falling into a leather chair, I tucked my arms behind my head and kicked my feet onto the conference table. “Remind me to stay upstairs next time-away from he-who-shall-not-be-named.”

Vincent glossed over the snide remark. “Must you wait for the others to proceed with the meeting?” He rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows and eased onto the chair directly opposite me. “I am bored.”

“Criminal supernumeraries benefit from the institution’s patience and generosity.” I got straight down to business. “Why? I officially denounced the majority of business partners for the flagitious decampment to Italian soil.”

Vincent listened intently.

“Ignazio is a permissive potentate.” After a silent stretch of anxiousness, I dropped my feet to the floor, elbows to the table and fingers interlaced. “Why does he continue to walk around with a heart in his chest?”

“The Italian will die the second he comes out from hiding.” A deadly promise glittered in the man’s steely eyes. “I will personally open fire.”

With all the long-barrelled rifles showcased around the room, I never doubted him. “Still, I do not like it,” I admitted, wearing my heart on my sleeve. “We look over our shoulders whilst he lives to see another day.”

“Patience, Jones. Ignazio is in for a violent comeuppance.” Vincent is purposely didactic. “Furthermore, we are not responsible for the pusillanimous leadership of others.”

“I concur.” Ignazio’s cowardice is beyond frustrating, though. I want results. “But we are responsible for issues wecancontrol.”

Vincent eyed me with caustic humour. “What do you propose?”

“It’s never too late to reframe actions.” Emptying my trouser pocket, I lined up essentials on the table: matches, blunt wraps and a bud of kush. “A clean slate would be advantageous for Warren Enterprise.”

“Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but new beginnings originated in France.” His voice dripped with ironic sarcasm. “When Louis Brasseur, the patron de la mafia of Marseille, abandoned Warren Enterprise and amalgamated with the Italians.” With notable impatience, he gently rocked in the leather chair, side to side. “Jones, I attend every closed-door conclave. You have already concluded that my brother’s empire is safer under lock and key, hence the closure of licit business establishments and, with a heavy heart, Club 11. A clean slate is old news.”

“In the beginning, I wasn’t thinking clearly, so the situation was comprehensively mismanaged,” I argued my case, and he hearkened to the voice of an apologetic man without disagreement. “I don’t know, Vince. Warren got life, and I had zero seconds to pick up the pieces. Do you think anything could have prepared me for the judge’s punishment? A life sentence? No. I never saw it coming. I thought the boss was indomitable.”

His fingers spun a pound coin on the table.

“In the aftermath of Warren’s imprisonment, I should have handled adversaries better,” I said with inarticulate regret, running my finger across the pliable blunt paper, sprinkling cannabis evenly into the cavity. “But Dominic happened. Alice and the baby.” Allies turned against the syndicate. Carter disappeared. “Emma.”

“Your little friend from the rookeries of London.” His hand slammed down on the table, the coin flattening beneath his palm. “Can the street-dweller handle the transition of grime to glamour?”

“Don’t call her that.” Provoked by the man’s antagonistic tendencies, I rolled the deck into a decent-sized blunt. “Emma is not some girl, Vince.”

Vincent scrutinised me with imperturbable poise and confidence, not a chink in his armour. “Was that an admission of love?”

“An admission of something.” My heart felt like it was under attack. “Emma is neither an enemy nor the target of vitriol and judgement. I know how you operate. You question outsiders closely and aggressively to see if they are trustworthy. Interrogation is not necessary, not with her. I will not stand for it.”

He wore a low, lazy smirk. “I have no objection to your courtship with Miss Hughes.”

“You reproach every female you encounter.” Warren’s younger brother is the common denominator of scorned, revenge-seeking females. If he is not overly fond of someone, he will exert himself to the utmost capabilities to uncover their innermost secrets, then reveal them publicly to watch them squirm in the eye of judgement. Take Blaire, for example. He played her like a bastard fiddle for the sheer fact that he disliked her. And Celine, who he’d only known for five seconds, bore the brunt of his opposing viewpoints for introducing herself at Warren Manor. But one woman with total impunity has not gone unnoticed: Mrs Warren. “Aside from Alexa.”

Vincent is just like his brother, impossible to read, but tonight, I had successfully caught him off-guard twice. The mask of indifference slipped, only slightly, for me to take note of the panic on his ruddy face.

“Guilt has very quick ears to an accusation,” I quoted Henry Fielding, swiping the match across the matchboard to spark a dancing flame. “Do you want to talk about it? I am a good listener.”

He levelled a serious look at me. “There is no conversation to be had.”

“Really?” By the force of soporiferous drugs, I lit the blunt and relaxed in the man’s company, exhaling a ribbon of thick smoke toward the high ceiling. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Contemplative,” he spoke with dry, laconic wittiness. “Pardon my French, but the fucking incoherencies are indecipherable.”

“Cut the shit.” I am not the only one that’s noticed the awkwardness of the unspeakable situation. People whisper rumours. The brothers talk. Vincent is struck down by limerence whenever Alexa walks into a room. “What’s the deal, huh? Are you in love with Warren’s wife?”

Vincent scowled. “First, I am gay, potentially sleeping with my best friend, Donny.” A black and gold cigarette withImperial Londonemblazoned on the filter dangled from the edge of his mouth. “Now, I am accused of loving my sister-in-law.” A lighter flame ignited nicotine inhalation. “How can I take a serial vacillator seriously? You resort to nonsensicality.”

Christ, I hate that I have warmed up to the twat. It was easier to lay into him when I despised him. “Just answer the question.”

He spun the pound coin on the table again. “No.”

“No?” An eyebrow canted. “What do you mean,no?”

“No, I am not in love with my brother’s wife.” He slid a round metal ashtray across the table for us to share. “Must I elucidate the nature of our platonic relationship to appease you?”

“Are you sure?” My suspicious mind did not cease to race with the concept of them having an affair. “I get the feeling you are not quite being honest with me, and that would suck, what, with us being all friendly and shit.”

“And if I were in love with Alexa,” he wondered, his brows tugged inward, and I could not differentiate between honesty and dishonesty, slick-talking and trickery. “What does that mean for us?”

“I swore fealty to the king of the underworld.” That’s the most straightforward question I have ever had to answer. “My loyalties lie with Warren.”

Vincent never batted an eyelid. “Here is a secret for you.” He flicked cigarette ash into the metal ashtray. “Your allegiance to my brother is commendable. For what it’s worth, I am glad he found you that night.”

My heart twinged.

“I used to be envious of your relationship. I wanted that, the big brother in my corner, love, patience and respect. I would have given anything to be on the receiving end of his approval. Now, I look at the situation differently.” He glanced at the double doors when the repetitive click of footsteps approached the man cave. “Liam needed you more than I needed him.”

“Without him, I would have died.” A candid explanation is what he deserved. “We had a difficult upbringing. I lived in squalor with an abusive mother and an absent father, whereas he bounced from one foster home to another with people who did not want him.” Smoke whispered through my lips. “You got dealt better cards. No one is mad about that. At least one of us had a happy childhood.”

Vincent is silent. I know he is thinking about his mother, Valerie.

“You had no reason to envy us.” Resting the half-smoked blunt in the ashtray, I leaned back in the chair to get comfortable, to let the effects of marijuana work through my veins. “I had to work hard for Warren’s love, but you walked into his life and earned it for existing. That is the power of blood. I don’t think you realise just how much he cares about you, Vince.”

“Thank you,” he whispered after a long stretch of silence. “Regardless of what feelings you think I might harbour for Alexa, I love Liam far too much to intentionally hurt him. I, too, swore fealty to him the moment I realised he was my brother. No matter what happens in life, I will forever have his best interest at heart.”

Yet, I could not shake the coldness in the air, the nagging feeling eating away at me that he wanted more from the boss’s wife.

“Listen,” I hedged around the problem. “I do not want to know the truth.” It’s better for everyone if I am ignorant. “The heart decides, right?”

Vincent’s jaw tensed.

“Just don’t act on it,” I gave him a friendly piece of advice. “Alexa will always choose him. And you will be left out in the cold as a consequence. That’s if he doesn’t kill you first.”

The double doors opened.

“I was summoned!” Alexa strolled into the room on slender, silken legs, the train of her split-thigh cocktail dress dragging along the floor like a river of glitter. “I am not happy about this last-minute meeting. You owe me for this nonsense, Brad.”

Great. I am in the shit again.

“I had a date with Jace tonight.” Her long, sleek hair fell to the base of her spine. “My first night off since I gave birth to Isabella, and you ruined it.”

“Ay, caramba.” Thighs slackened casually, I turned in the chair to face her, deliberately touring the length of her body with approving eyes. “The environment is officially corrupted.”

My boss’s wife is undeniably perplexed.

“Look at you,” I said, a flattering comment for the fresh-faced beauty in black. “All sexy and shit.”

She flipped me the middle finger.

“Ouch.” With a look of sheer horror, I slapped a hand on my chest to expunge the ache of my wounded heart. “Way to take a compliment.”

Her hips swayed as she sauntered across the room.

Yes, I might have ogled her arse because where the fuck did it come from?

“Brad,” Alexa castigated me for no damn reason, dumping her sparkly clutch purse onto the table. “Stop looking at my butt.”

My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. I flung the other man in the room a quizzical look. “Why does she have a go at me but not you?”

Vincent shrugged.

Alexa’s angel wings were on full display, the intricate feathers unfurling gracefully on the shimmer-dusted skin of her shoulder blades. “Brad!” she snapped, and I swear, I had an instant headache. “You’d think I had never worn a bloody dress before!”

“Calm down, gob-a-lot. It’s not my fault there is so much skin flying about.” I gestured to her chest, where her tits nearly poked out for a peep show. “Everything is in my bastard face.”

Her eyes rolled.

“You had to walk past the brothers looking like that.” Relighting the blunt, I took two puffs and proffered haze to Vincent. “Could the outfit be any more revealing?”

“Yes, I could roll the dress to my hips and flash my peach.” With a facety attitude of contemptuousness, she flicked hair over her shoulder and lowered herself to the chair, her leg crossing over the opposite knee, her arms positioned on the armrests. “Then you would have something to complain about.”

“How can one express dissatisfaction?” Vincent slipped her a long, speculative look, and then, tauntingly slow, his lips cracked into a wolfish smirk. “I love a good peach.”

Alexa’s face heated.

“It’s not like we haven’t seen it all before.” The crazy bitch went ballistic and danced starkers at Club 11 in front of the brothers and the punters to piss off her husband. Not her finest moment in life. I got front-row seats to the striptease and never failed to remind the boss how I admired her rebellious heart. And her delectable-looking pussy. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“At the club?” Vincent is lost in the fantabulous memory of her trying to work a stripper pole in seven-inch fuck-me heels. “Yes, I remember it well.”

“Brad,” Alexa sighed, disappointed. “You promised to erase that night from your memory.”

Apparently, I make promises to break them. “Alexa in all her naked glory, exposing her arse to pervy old men.”

Her red-polished fingernails drummed on the table. “Will you control yourself?”

“Moi?” Missing the good old days, I winked at her. “Never.”

“Jones.” Vincent’s arm draped across the back of her chair, his fingers dangerously close to her shoulder. “Do not flirt with my brother’s wife.”

“You are only jealous because I can get away with it.” Glaring at his hand with murderous intent, I imagined how loudly his bones would snap, crackle and pop if I gripped his arm, pushed his wrist back and applied the right amount of pressure to dislocate his naughty fingers. “Unlike some people, I know.”

Vincent grunted something inarticulate.

“Hang on a minute.” My stare bounced from Alexa to the double doors. “You were not surprised by the secret Batcave. Have you been here before?”

“Yes.” Alexa toyed with the chain around her neck. “Why?”

“Well, that’s fucking charming.” It’s nice to know that she received a personal invite long before the brothers. “Vincent, I am wholly offended-”

“So, Logan is upstairs.” Alexa changed the subject to alleviate the tension in the air. “He has to live at the estate?”

It sounded like a question. “He is not welcome at Warren Manor.”

“Logan will always have a home with me.” Her frosty stare betrayed the calmness in her voice. “I miss him, Brad.”

“I am with Jones on this one.” Vincent stuck to the two-puff pass rule, returning the blunt to me. “You have a baby to consider. How can you take care of Isabella whilst stressing over an ungrateful teenager? Let him stay at the Jones’ residence until he is mature enough to come home.”

Alexa let out a sigh of despair.

“It’s for his own good.” Logan’s in self-destruct mode. He is angry at the world, lashing out and throwing his life away. Alexa is too soft on him, letting him get away with murder. That’s why he needs to be with someone else. If not Vincent, then me, to whoop his arse into shape. “Trust me. I know what I am doing.”

“I trust you,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “But… Please do not be too hard on him. He’s a good kid. He’s just a little lost.”

Oh, I have great plans for the boy, starting with an early morning wake-up call and a cheeky run with the sunrise. “I will not let you down.”

Familiar laughter echoed in the hall, the double doors parting for two dapper-looking men in smart suits to enter. Thankfully, Josh came bearing gifts: takeout containers wrapped in an unpresentable cardboard box.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Nate drawled, his eyes flickering from one cabinet to the next. “That’s an Airsoft Surgeon.” His inked finger aimed at the titanium sniper rifle on the shelf, the best level of versatility and modularity. “You got the Optic Thunder, huh?” He was like a kid in a candy shop, rubbing his hands together in moreish delight. “Vincent ain’t playing.”

Josh’s spine bowed as he examined the Thunderhorse set of matt black throwing knives on one of the counters. “What’s with all the weapons?” He ran the pad of his finger along the clip-point blade of a stainless-steel Hibben knife. “Are you any good?”

Vincent tapped an unlit cigarette on the table, then popped it between his lips. “Only the best.”

Josh deposited the box of Greek-inspired dishes onto the table.

It’s mealtime for the famished.

“You look nice,” Josh complimented the woman’s glamorous style as he tucked into a container of giouvarlakia dumplings sprinkled with fresh dill and zested lemon. “Hot date?”

“Jace bought grand tier box tickets to watch Puccini’s La bohème at The Royal Opera House.” Alexa dipped rosemary stuffed flatbread into olive oil. “A great love story that I will never get to see, thanks to the blond-haired idiot with his imperious demands.”

“Why did you ruin her life?” Josh is too preoccupied with teasing techniques to notice the stolen dumpling melting in Alexa’s mouth. “You should let her branch out and spread her wings.”

“Thank you, Josh. I am glad someone has my back.” Alexa’s in heaven, the dumpling’s filling of seasoned minced lamb dissolving on her tongue. “And I earned a date night with Jace. I have barely spent time with him since the baby was born.”

“I am on your side, Alexa.” Josh almost stabbed at the container with a plastic fork, but something stopped him: the pilfered dumpling. “You bunch of melts.” He was instantly primed for a fight. “Who stole my food?”

I plead the fifth.

Josh’s head slowly turned to Alexa. “It was you.”

“Me?” Alexa’s tongue swiped a speck of Greek yoghurt on her upper lip. “I have never tasted a dumpling before in my life.”

“Liar.” Josh crammed chips into his gob. “Glut. It’s rude to take food off others’ plates. I was saving that dumpling for the tzatziki sauce. I should shove my fingers down your throat until you throw up. You don’t deserve to digest stolen goods.”

“You shouldn’t be eating that shit, anyway.” Nate moved the bag of salted chips out of Josh’s reach. “Cheat Day is next week. You have to train and bulk up.”

“I am an Elite. I work out every day of the week. I can afford to eat steamed dough if I want to.” Josh retook the chips, keeping the bag on his lap in case Dr Death tried to steal them from him. “Do not mess with a hungry man’s dinner, Nate. If I want to eat, I will eat. If I want to be fat, I will be fat.” A vein by his temple pulsed. “If I want to say fuck the gym and fuck you, I will say fuck the gym and fuck you!”

“You ungrateful piece of shit!” Nate’s inked hands flattened on the table as he rose from the chair onto his feet. “I bust my ass off helping you. And for what? This level of bullshit? Fuck you, Josh!”

Alexa inspected her almond-shaped fingernails.

Recognising the signs of a physical altercation, I gingerly set the chicken-stuffed gyro aside and pushed to my feet. “Everyone take a breather-”

“I am sick of you!” Josh’s low, savage snarl reverberated throughout the chemical-infused space. “Always riding my ass! I never signed up for a personal fucking drill sergeant when I joined Warren Enterprise!”

I don’t know how it happened. One minute, the men are arguing-idle threats to rip each other’s throats out-and then the gloves are off, angry fists flying, takeaway containers sliding.

A tub of spaghetti boiled in goat meat slapped me in the face. I spat anthotyro cheese out of my mouth, the soft, creamy texture of gag-worthy atrociousness trickling down my chin.

Josh can hold his own in a fistfight, but he could not take on Nate if you paid him. The guy is built like a brick shit house. A machine of muscle and iron. So, when Josh landed on the floor with Nate on top of him, I was not surprised, not in the slightest, because the syndicate’s jack of all trades is not someone you want to fuck with.

“That’s enough.” Removing the slush on my face, I gripped Nate’s shoulders and dragged him off the lad, disconnecting their tangled bodies and forcing him to stand. “Nate-”

Nate pulled the Glock on Josh, the barrel pointing directly at the target. He stood over the lad like an impenetrable wall of muscle, the most disgusted sneer on his scrunched-up face.

Everyone went quiet, so quiet you could hear a pin drop on the floor. I cleared my throat, silently asking Nate to calm down, to consider his actions.

“Seriously?” Josh’s brown hair stuck out in all directions as he staggered to his feet, a rivulet of blood on his busted-up lip. “You’d squeeze the trigger on me?”

“Nate,” I said, concerned for the lad, but Nate refused to look at me, his chest heaving for breath. “Come on…”

“Fuck him,” Nate spat, his finger hovering over the trigger. “I am tired of his bullshit. He doesn’t deserve to be here. Fuck if he ever did.”

“Nate?” Alexa’s hand closed around the gun, her fingers touching his tightly clenched fist. “Josh is one of us. You will never forgive yourself if you hurt him.”

When Nate took his eye off Josh to reply to Alexa, I swooped in without hesitation and disarmed him. I snatched the weapon out of his hand, taking control of the situation.

“You gun-toting dickhead,” I ripped him a new arsehole, thrusting the gun beneath the waistband of my trousers. “You do not have the authority to kill or threaten one of the brothers. That’s on me, and you fucking know it.”

Josh smoothed two hands over his head to tidy his appearance.

“I am done with this omnishambles,” I said, not bothering to sit down. “Now is not the time to argue and fall apart. Warren is relying on us to get shit done. Let’s get down to business so I can go home and see my son.”

Nate’s jaw muscle throbbed.

“I will start with you,” I said, jabbing Alexa in the chest with the tip of my finger. “You are going to boot camp, bitch.”

Alexa’s entire body recoiled. “Did you just call me a bitch?”

“Yes.” A derisive snort. “Shamelessly.”

“Asshole.”

“Proud.”

“Thank you for the impolite offer, but I decline.” Her smile was nothing short of sinister. “You will not force the barracks on me.”

“I can, and I will.” You see, I never asked if she’d like to attend the barracks out of the goodness of my heart. It was a demand. Therefore, she does not get a say in the matter. “The fortification of self-defence is non-negotiable.”

“I can defend myself.” Her shoulder thrust me out of the way as she deserted the circle to return to her seat at the table. “I don’t need an enforcer to teach me how to fire a gun. Jace did that already.”

In a flash, without a moment’s thought, I swiped the stainless-steel throwing knife off the steel counter, snatched the nape of Alexa’s neck before she could become seated and overpowered her with unnecessary strength.

She squealed with a mixture of panic and shock, her back crashing into my chest, her fingernails tearing at my forearm that was locked around her throat.

And that’s all it took for me to put her in her place, the sharpest point of the blade digging into the side of her neck, right over the internal carotid artery.

I could kill her right now if I wanted to.

My lips tickled the shell of her ear when I whispered, “Dead.”

“You son of a bitch.” Alexa slapped the knife out of my hand, the heavy blade skittering along the floor. “You killed me!”

Vincent watched Alexa closely as she powered through the room with furious strides. “Angel, I thought you could defend yourself.”

“That mishap does not count.” Her hand delved into the under counter cupboard for a bottle of Grey Goose. “I keep my walls down around him because I do not expect him to betray me!”

Vincent’s scowl deepened. “Betrayal is such a strong word.” He is my best friend tonight, and honestly, I appreciated his input more than I let on. “Jones was merely proving a point. Judging by the vodka bottle in your hand, it is safe to assume that scaremongering worked.”

With a face like a slapped,peachy-pun intended-arse, Alexa poured vodka into a stainless-steel tumbler and finalised the drink with a sterling silver straw.

“Nate, I want Alexa to have extensive physical and firearms training,” I ordered, and he accepted the challenge. “Do not go easy on her, either. If she doesn’t know how to throw a decent punch and quick-swap firearms within three months, I will personally hold you accountable.”

“God.” Alexa scoffed into the tumbler. “I know how to use a gun.”

“Get your shit together, Mrs Warren.” Nate is all smiles, the wind-up merchant. “Your ass is mine.”

“Command?” Alexa smirked with devilish mischief. “I would like to raise a grievance,” she said tightly. “Unfair treatment.”

I had the urge to laugh. “Who is treating you unfairly?”

Alexa’s eyes turned into beady slits.

“Do not misinterpret the situation. Protection outweighs mistreatment,” I said loosely, as the assignment is for the greater good. “I have to regain Warren’s Empire. The last thing I need to worry about is you at the mercy of adversaries. Do as your bastard told, or I will lock you underground until the boss is exonerated. How’s that for unfair treatment?”

“Sure.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “Fine.”

“Fine,” I replied snippily.

“Fine,” she clapped back.

“Fine!” I had to stop myself from belting her disobedient arse. “Anything else?”

“Maybe.” Her lips pushed into a disdainful pout. “I had a date with Dominic this afternoon.”

Yes, I am aware. Mabel is informative. “So, I was told.”

“Imagine my surprise when I dropped him off at the estate and ran into Emma Hughes.” Alexa failed miserably at downplaying the role of an investigator. “An overnight bag was present in the kitchen.”

Christ, I love the red-lipped vixen. “You are so nosey.”

“Thank you.” A delighted smile. “I want all the details.”

If it were just the two of us, I would pour my heart out and tell her everything, beginning, middle and end, but we are not alone. We have eyes and ears in the room. “I have nothing to say.”

“Oh, please,” Alexa groused with stoic bafflement. “A woman is inyourhouse, keepingyourbed warm. There isplentyfor you to say.”

Feeling the heat of the brothers’ expert scrutiny, I scratched my jaw, fully aware of the unwanted attention my procrastination was starting to draw. “Emma is…”Everything I ever wanted.“I asked if she would like to be in an exclusive relationship with me.”

“I knew it!” Alexa’s hands clapped with excitement. “Tell me everything.”

“Oh, I can fill in the gaps.” Josh uninvitingly elected himself for the task. “I spent the entire weekend in their cringeworthy, lovesick company. Friday, the sexual tension between them was off the charts. Saturday, they argued, then locked me out of the suite and fucked each other all night long,” he sang Lionel Richie and Nate doubled over with hysterics. “All night long!”

“Shut up, Joslyn!” I berated him for breaking the bro code. “Like you can fucking talk.” My icy glare dared him to deny it. “Did Josh tell everyone about Pedro?”

Nate’s smile fell to the floor. “Who the fuck is Pedro?”

“Brad!” Josh blushed a deep scarlet. “Why?”

Friendship among men is momentarily over for the snitch. I was sent here to expose him. “He got into a frisky foursome: two hot chicks and a rubber dildo.”

“I did not get frisky with Pedro.” Josh ran a hand over his head. “I bolted out of the room as soon as those horny bitches waved that fucker in my face.”

“Sailor…” Nate is squeamish about toys near his back passage. “I thought the toe-sucking was bad, but you went too far this time. A dildo? How can you do that to yourself, Man?”

“I am not a toe-sucker. And I never touched any sex toys.” Josh is exhausted by the ordeal. He knows he cannot win this battle. “It was them, Patty and Mary. They tried to seduce me. I am the victim here!”

Nate’s stare dipped to the lad’s rear end. “Is your ass sore?”

“No, my virgin ass is not sore!” Josh is fighting for his life. “What part of I-bolted-out-the-room-as-soon-as-those-horny-bitches-waved-that-fucker-in-my-face did you not understand?” His arms outstretched widely to highlight the magnitude of the problem. “The fuck? You act like I went to town on it!”

“Oh, my God.” Alexa buried her face in Vincent’s chest to smother the giggles/snorts escaping her mouth. “Greedy gobbler.”

Josh’s eyes narrowed at her.

“Not to mention Carol Anne,” I ratted him out. “He pulled out all the stops and ventured to fucking Narnia with that cock strangling nympho.”

“Carol Anne?” Nate lips twisted in disapproval. “You got serious issues, Sailor.”

“Brad, I hate you.” Josh was mid-step over the spilt food on the floor when Vincent’s hand struck him in the chest. “Can I help you?”

“You ignorant fool.” Vincent pointed to mashed-up moussaka with a finger click. “Do I look like a janitor? I am not responsible for another person’s untidiness.”

“Wait!” Alexa’s brow bowed down in puzzlement. “How did you spend the weekend with Emma and her sister? I thought you attended an international fashion conference?”

“Long story,” Josh shut the conversation down, using a plastic fork to scrape crushed courgette balls into an empty takeaway container. “Don’t ask.”

Nate went down on one knee to help clear the squished white fish. “So, what’s the purpose of this meeting, anyway?” He flinched when something sticky grazed his fingers. “I know you didn’t call everyone down here to discuss Mrs Warren’s amateurish marksmanship.”

Alexa ignored everyone’s running commentary.

My backside fell into the chair. “What’s the functional pillar that supports Warren Enterprise?”The streets raised me. Warren’s passionate tone of voice played like a symphony in the back of my mind. “What put him on the map?”

“Poverty?” Nate shrugged one shoulder. “Violent neighbourhoods.”

“That’s where it all began, right?” Warren broke down doors, took over turfs and demanded allegiance. He started from the bottom and worked his way up the ladder until the throne fell into his possession. He never looked back. “The fall of Warren’s Empire is a disastrous odyssey, but we have not lost until every one of us is buried six feet under.”

Vincent pulled out a chair for Alexa to sit down. Only then did he return to his rightful position for the entirety of the conversation. “What’s in the pipeline?”

“I want to rebuild our army, make it stronger than ever before.” Thoughts of the boss in a cast-iron cage drove me forward. “Business is closed until further notice. As far as Ignazio is concerned, he won the war. Warren is in prison. The firm is gone. We go our separate ways and wallow in self-pity.”

“You want us to separate?” Alexa asked, and my silence was enough. “But why? We are stronger together. Brad, I need…” Her sad eyes memorised every detail on my face. “I need you.”

“Hey, I am not walking away from you, Sugar Tits.” But I need a stellar plan for the disadvantageous situation to present an advantageous position. “Ignazio will believe in our defeat. However, in reality, the fight has only just begun.”

“Okay.” Alexa blew out a shuddered breath. “In you, I trust.”

“Nate, I need previous assignments to be severely bowdlerised,” I instructed, and within seconds, he was in work mode: black-framed reading glasses, a leather-bound notepad and a fountain pen. “New missions will be handed out to the brothers and neatly docketed prior to the subdivision of the institution.”

Josh shared a confused look with Alexa.

“Put every Bentley underground,” I reeled off loose ends. “Roll out new, bulletproof vehicles with fake licence plates to the brothers. Not one car is the same.”

“Stealth mode, huh?” Josh slid an arm over Alexa’s shoulders, pulling her to his side for a friendly hug. “I like it.”

Alexa had tears in her eyes. “I hate it.”

“As for employees?” I had so many people to care for, club girls, bar staff, security guards, chefs, servers–the list is endless. “Put everyone on statutory sick pay pending further information.”

“Can we afford it?” Josh asked whilst Nate made a note to double-check the payroll software. “Are we going underground with the wheels?”

Alexa read the answer in my eyes. “No,” she protested, not having a bar of it. “You can’t do this, Brad. We are not broken. We are not weak. We do not hide.” A tear of devastation is on her cheek. “We can take on anyone that stands in our way. We fight back every fucking time. My husband demands it.”

“Everyone is going to die,” I stressed, not that she cared to listen. “If we do not make serious changes, I will lose everything in battle. Is that what you want?”

“No.” She wiped the tear on her cheek. “But we should not be forced to live below the surface. What about the children? A life in the dark is not life at all.”

“I made a purchase. I bought a safe house in Surrey.” It’s only an hour’s drive from London. “If staying underground is too difficult, then everyone will be relocated until further notice.”

“And Logan?” Alexa is aghast by the new game plan. “What about college? He has to study.”

“Logan will receive private tutoring until I give everyone the all-clear,” I spoke with strict authority. “It is impossible for attackers to enter a heavily guarded estate. He will be safe.”

“The same applies to Warren Manor.” Nate put Alexa’s mind at rest. “However, if there is a security breach in the next few months, I agree with Brad. Everyone must relocate to the safehouse until we shut down Ignazio’s operation.”

Alexa is scared. I can see it in her eyes. “Have you both thought about Celine and Emma? What if the Italians target them?”

Nate looked at me for guidance.

“It’s going to get nasty, isn’t it?” Alexa did not need confirmation. “What is the first assignment?”

“Mass destruction.” There is no free pass. If you are not with us, you are against us. “Innocent people will die. The Italians will retaliate.”

Alexa cupped her mouth.

“But first, I need an armed force.” Accepting a pre-rolled blunt off Josh, I ignited the end with a lighter flame. “Our first hit will transpire in three weeks.”

Nate scribbled down notes.

“Starting with the streets.” Sin City is there for the taking and I am a willing participant. “Those who turned against us will bleed.” Louis Brasseur can enjoy his last summer before the angel of death comes for him like a shadow of the night. “Vincent, I need you to handle former business associates, preferably overseas.”

“Gladly,” Vincent agreed, reading between the lines. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” We fought with the local Italians but never hit our enemies where it truly hurt: their motherland. “Ignazio attacked first. He came into our city and hurt the people we loved. Karma is a bitch. I want you to track down Eli in Italy and wipe out every relative, friend, neighbour and associate connected to Johnny Cazale, Anthony Costello, Saverio Bosqui and Ignazio Corrazzo. See if you can help the Ukrainian find Christina Moschini while you are there.”

Vincent hummed in thought. “What of Alberto Moretti?”

“No, I will hunt down Moretti.” Alberto, the lying, two-faced, opportunistic tosser and his entourage of preponderantly disloyal ilks will die at my hands. “Josh, I need an update on the Vasiliev brothers before I put this operation in motion. Are they friends or foes? Did we ever find out if they were in cahoots with the Italians?”

“We have tapped into Nikolai’s phone calls and read his emails.” Josh is unfazed by the Russian politician. “There is no tangible evidence to suggest that both parties know each other. In my honest opinion, I think the Vasiliev brothers are corrupt arseholes, but that segment of corruption does not apply to us. They have their agenda to worry about: The rapist brother on lockdown. I say, let’s give them a chance. You said it yourself. We need allies.”

Nate jotted information down.

“Are we in agreement?” I asked the others if they had reached an accord. “Good. I will pay the Russians a friendly visit next week. I want to know if he is still in contact with Warren. If so, I can work with him to strengthen our position.” Nikolai might have friends that want to do business with us. “Did we get answers on the new governor at Belmarsh? I have not received any updates from the boss’s lawyer.”

“Carl Bishop?” Dropping the pen on the table, Nate slumped back in the chair with two arms braced across his chest. “You know, I haven’t spoken to him in a while. No emails. No text messages. Not one phone call.” His forehead wrinkled with deep-set lines of worry. “I should swing by his apartment and make sure he is alive and kicking. It’s not like him to go off the grid without notice.”

Vincent splashed a hefty amount of vodka into stainless-steel tumblers and arranged them on the table for everyone, a cold drink to end the meeting.

“I hope Carl is okay.” Alexa is sitting on the edge of her seat, her foot tapping the floor restlessly, the vodka cup tight in her knuckle-white hand. “I am curious. What is the final assignment?”

“The Palace of Westminster,” I said honestly, and the four of them exchanged concerned glances. “If we want Nikolai in the big boy’s office, I need to eradicate the rats to make room for him.”

Nate is in disbelief. “You wanna take a shot at the government?”

“Only the ones that refuse to forge an unbreakable bond.” My plan is going to work this time. I just need some time to fit the pieces together. “Look, I have to strategise future actions. In the meantime, I want the syndicate to obliterate the streets and work towards rival organisations, inclusive of limited companies, partnerships and corporations. You can be the CEO of the company or a small business owner. I don’t give a fuck. You are paying for the syndicate’s protection whether you like it or not. But first, I want you to put the fear of God into them. You make them wish they’d never been born.”

Josh is focused on the task ahead. “And if they decline our offer?”

“Dump them in the Thames with all the other tossers that challenged us over the years.” My body was tense, the heavy burden of Warren’s crown weighing heavily on my head. “I know it sounds messy. I still need to prepare the brothers. But we got something the Italians lack. Each other.”

Alexa’s lips stretched into a nostalgic smile.

“Command.” Nate’s hand came to my shoulder. “Rule number forty-eight: Family is not defined by blood.”

“Rule number sixteen: Have faith in the hands of those who braced you,” Josh recited the rules. “Never give up hope.”

“Eighteen.” Raising the tumbler, I made a toast to the men, Alexa, and our future together. “We don’t keep our enemies close. We bury them.”

“Ninety-nine,” Alexa whispered, and four pairs of different-coloured eyes turned to her. “Remember me, for I will never forget you.”

An unfamiliar ache settled in my chest. “I am done with this shit.” My hand tightened around the tumbler as I poured neat vodka down my throat. “Who’s ready for the biggest hit in mafia history?”

Nate kissed his military tag. “I was fucking born ready.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

THE LONDON CRIME KING

Cell life.

Powerlessness.

I lost it eventually.

Maybe it was the airless cell, the windowless wall, the steel door and the refusal of deinstitutionalisation that contributed to the anarchy of madness or the silent scream tearing through the arid crevices of my throat when pleading for a drop of water. Whatever the reason for manic episodes, perceptions of imaginative figures and the black-eyed intruder living rent-free inside my head, I could not scale the walls for another second without the attack of stomach-churning biliousness and throat-clenching claustrophobia.

Darkness.

Boredom.

Loneliness.

Insanity.

My mind is not my own anymore. It belonged to a pitiless traitor, a persuasively articulate tormenter who liked to remind me of all I have lost to the untraceable hollows of unpoetical injustice.

A miscarriage of justice.

If I shouted into the dark abyss, pounded on the locked door or belted imprecations into the sprawling sphere of the night, the guards ignored me. I am unworthy of time and attention. I could stay here and rot in chains, in the tethers of psychotic derangement. That’s what sheer carelessness and contributory negligence insinuated.

Solitary confinement.

What did I do to warrant the most extreme punishment?

Nothing.

I was escorted out of the main prison past twenty-foot concrete walls and doors that could only be opened by the central control room to be chucked into a black box the guards called disciplinary segregation.

To think I was blessed with a single cell on the lifers’ spur before prison officers emerged in the middle of the night to rip me out of bed and relocate me to HSU, the high-security prison within the actual prison housing the most dangerous inmates who posed an escape risk. Or rather, high-risk criminals that could easily use connections to abscond judicial authority.

Yet, I have shown no signs of being a flight risk. I accepted my fate, kept my head down and took prison and punishment on the chin like a good soldier. I am not a danger to myself or the inmates…

Well, I am relatively harmless to other inmates, just as long as they do not step on my toes. Disrespect me and catch more than a slap on the head.

So, why am I stuck in the torrid vastness of Hell?

Your guess is as good as mine.

Sleeping on the cold floor is the lowest a prisoner can go: no bed, toilet, sink, regular access to clean water or communication with the other wings. I am left here for twenty-three hours a day tothink about my actions, only lucky to grab a quick shower in and out, and that’s if the guards are in a good mood. It’s not uncommon for them to forget obligatory fitness regimes or personal hygiene routines for weeks.

Nothing is safe about prolonged solitary confinement, nor is it legal to subject prisoners to inhumane conditions and unfair treatment.

Ironically, most prison officers are not interested in the law. Abuse of power with impunity is second nature for the likes of Bronwyn MhicLeòid.

Thanks to that crack-head cunt, I have been treated inhumanely, stabbed, beaten, threatened, degraded and forced to endure poor sanitary conditions since the transfer by him and other officials.

He forgot the standards of behaviour, accountability and integrity when he beat me to a pulp, without reason or justification, black-and-blue, remorselessly dehumanised, with a metal baton whilst my dignity was restrained by the man’s liveried footmen.

Unable to shield myself from the anger of unforgiving bitterness that bubbled into every atom of my body, from the graphically violent flashcards (playing on repeat inside my head) of what MhicLeòid and his cravenly submissive minions-equipped with Gomm Cognes, rubber bullets and incapacitant sprays-put me through, without cessation or exception, I pictured a life outside of the prison, where I could stalk the streets at the dead of night to track down the man responsible for blunt eye trauma.

You heard correctly. I can hardly see out of my right eye, the eyelid red, swollen and puffy, the cheekbone numb and inflamed, as a consequence of inmate abuse committed by a certain corrections officer.

Bronwyn MhicLeòid, the cruel, cold-blooded head guard, is renowned for unprofessional behaviour and prison misconduct. He brutally pulverised prisoners for minor infractions. He planted contraband in cells on House Block Two to ruin the men’s chances of parole.

MhicLeòid is ruthless, wild and savage. Under different circumstances, I might have offered him a job, a high-rank status, a white-gold military chain, a personalised vehicle and a hefty salary because men like MhicLeòid are hard to come by, but given the difficult nature of the situation, I wanted him wiped off the face of the earth instead.

Dead. Gone. Buried.

One less headache for me to deal with.

MhicLeòid is also delusional. In his warped little mind, he can punch my lights out, with no backlash, because he is indomitable, feared and untouchable. I cannot hurt him. If I so much as raised an eyebrow at him, I would be held down, deprived of movement, of personal liberty, by six or more officers whilst he rearranged every bone in my face.

If I snitched to Nick Howard, the Governor-a tall, stocky, square-shouldered brown-noser with unsightly crooked teeth to match the uncomely malformed beak-informed him of an imminent threat, MhicLeòid will still be in the prison tomorrow, armed with excessive pride and vindictive narcissism. He will not be held accountable for his actions, nor will his partners in crime.

Besides, I am not one to sing like a canary, to rat on anyone, friend or foe, because snitching is foul play, dirty business, an amateur’s tragic flaw. I am old school. I take tyranny personally and handle antagonism directly, face to face, man to man, an unannounced visit to the person’s private home, as friendly as I can manage before I place another wilting heart on the shelf of departed souls.

Nick Howard is Dane Russell’s predecessor. He might be new on the block but is not a novice. He’s got over thirty years of prison service duties under his belt, having governed The Scrubs and Frankland in the past.

When I met Nick Howard for the first time, I was undeniably confused by his arrival. Here is an unrecognisable man on the threshold of solitary confinement, tailored suit, leather shoes, gold-framed glasses, salt and pepper hair, hands in his trouser pockets, snarling from ear to ear, throwing down the law, revoking privileges like regular meals, work out sessions in the gym, walks in the yard and sufficient time out of the cell to socialise.

To Nick’s dismay, I behaved accordingly during introductions. I never lashed out, threatened him or asked questions. Even when he loomed in the doorway, watching fixedly as MhicLeòid’s leather belt lacerated the skin on my back, I knew within seconds that he was an enemy, not an accomplice. I could offer him every pound I had, and he would still give me the cold shoulder after spitting in my face.

But I did have questions. I had to know about Dane Russell, the man I paid generously for privileges and protection. I received special treatment, weekly visits to the medical wing to see Jodie, extra time in the gym to release pent-up frustration, and contraband cigarettes and Pepsi bottles laced with whiskey. Letters from loved ones. Information from the other side.

Fear was the only explanation for Dane Russell’s immediate resignation. I often pondered the motive behind his employment termination, as I found the oddity of his long-standing uncommunicativeness suspicious. He was imposed by coercion to leave the office. At least, that’s what I determined.

Ren confirmed my suspicions a couple of weeks later when he swung by to slip a cigarette and a matchstick under my door. Russell committed suicide, his death plastered all over the news, apparently. A specialist underwater rescue team retrieved the man’s vehicle from Birchmere Lake, Thamesmead, London. His upended body was bent over the steering wheel.

Bullshit.

Russell’s death was the result of a spring clean, an inconvenience, a loose end. He got whacked. Nick took his place at Belmarsh. MhicLeòid secured himself a sweet deal on the Governor’s arm, the fucking snake. I landed in HSU, where I had to watch my back, vigilant and hawk-eyed, always cautious, to prevent premeditated murder.

It’s not the other prisoners I had to avoid. Those guards are psyched up for a bloodbath. Harassment will not stop until I am dead. You will not convince me otherwise. I am on borrowed time.

Bronwyn MhicLeòid.

I have never experienced hatred quite like it. I thought the anger I reserved for my father was insurmountable, bone-deep, too personal to let bygones be bygones, to forgive him for neglect and abandonment, but what I felt for MhicLeòid surpassed intense dislike. I despised him. I yearned to kill him, to bleed him dry, imagined the unimaginable, day after day, night after night. I wanted to feel the thrum of his pulse in my thumbs when my hands wrapped around his neck, to hear the shallow sobs of strangulation when he begged for his life, for mercy, for forgiveness, for a heart I did not possess.

MhicLeòid thinks I will never get out or seek retribution for unfair treatment. I am locked up for life, so he can take unfair advantage of those incarcerated and sleep peacefully at night, both eyes closed, restful tranquillity, because lifers are in no position to question authority, to defend themselves and make an attempt of retaliation, physically or verbally, especially when outnumbered by dishonourable tormentors.

God is my witness. I will see the light of another day beyond isolation, barred cells and prison walls. MhicLeòid’s blood will stain my hands once I have dismembered and divided every inch of his body.

An abrupt knock on the door bathetically brought me back down to earth.

If I had the energy, I would get off the floor to converse with the guard, but I preferred to lie down and guesstimate the total of bricks in the cell or how many paint strokes unadorned the ceiling.

The door unlocked, and a sudden bright light blinded my vision. I winced at the invasion, the strain in my damaged eye sending a sharp, shooting pain through my head.

Burying my face in the nook of my arm, I rolled onto my side and urged myself to remain calm in the presence of adversaries. I might be compromised, internally screaming, but you could not pay me to show weakness in front of Bronwyn MhicLeòid. I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how the sight of him alone severed my skin like flesh-eating acid.

Bronwyn’s shiny leather shoes entered my peripheral vision first. He paused to look down his crooked nose at me, then strolled around the small cell, the baton he loved to weaponise twirling in his deft fingers. “How is it going down there?” I did not need to look at him to know he was smirking. “You look comfortable on the cold, filthy floor where you belong.”

“Solitary confinement is hardly a drunken bacchanal,” I croaked, eyeing the doorway heavily occluded by uniformed guards. “A quorum of officers for little old me?” A smile played over my lips as I scratched the overgrown beard smattered across my bruised jaw. “I must be special-”

Bronwyn whacked me over the head with a punishing hand, the force behind the harsh, unpleasant blow smacking my cheek against the floor, grazing skin, almost knocking out a tooth.

“Fuck!” My jaw throbbed as I clenched my teeth and swallowed anguish. “You will pay for that.”

MhicLeòid chuckled haughtily along with the minions in the doorway. He really is a fucking sadist. He derived pleasure from inflicting pain on others.

Licking my upper gum, I detected a crack in the right premolar and rage resurfaced. I had the perfect smile when I first arrived at Belmarsh, brilliant white teeth, straight and faultless. MhicLeòid had cost me two molars prior to premolar damage.

“That is a shame,” I spat, blood, saliva and pieces of enamel splatting on the floor between my splayed fingers. “Perhaps you can arrange for me to attend an appointment with the dentist.” Then, with meagre strength, bones jittering at the knees, I soared to my full height, eye to eye with the inhospitable man. “I can afford a gold tooth as a replacement for the one you so foolishly destroyed-”

He struck me again, harder this time, an unmerciful, iron-structured fist colliding with my jaw.

I lost my footing, tripped over my ankles, and crashed into the solid planes of the concrete wall on impact.

Hands sticking to the concrete wall for balance, I might have seen stars of gyrating glitter. I am not one to boast about another person’s grand achievements. Pride would not allow it. I am too unapologetically arrogant to flatter, compliment or eulogise those who may or may not be worthy. But he could throw a decent punch. I should know. I am on the receiving end of his physical capabilities every fucking day.

“You will regret the day you looked sideways at me,” I warned him, wiping the metallic taste of blood across my close-lipped mouth as I sized up to him with purposeful strides, not that he flinched or recoiled. He held his ground, his disrespectful defiance and unshakable poise. “Mark my words, MhicLeòid. I will have the last laugh.”

Inconsolable vexation shoved me to the perilous edge of darkness. I could take him right now, snap his neck without a second thought or an ounce of remorse. But there is no revenge in instant gratification when momentary victory could interfere with Nikolai’s plan to exonerate me of all criminal charges when he becomes Prime Minister. I can walk the mile, bide my time and come for him when I am ready to collect a debt at the rightful occasion and in the most respectable attire-an expensive suit. I might even splash out and treat myself to a tie. I am not a huge fan of satin knots, but one can do marvellous tricks with a piece of cloth and a snappable throat.

A tight noose.

Sucking blood off the tip of my thumb, I tsked the man for the foolhardiness. “There is not a man on this earth I fear more than myself.”

If only MhicLeòid would take such warnings seriously. I would be less bloodthirsty in the future if he learned to control himself in the present. All he had to do was respect boundaries for a painless death. I could be kind, thoughtful and generous. A bullet between the eyes is quick and cheerful.

Who am I fooling?

I am going to skin him alive, whether he adopted manners or not.

My eyes rolled over him. “You would do well to remember that.”

“Are you forgetting something?” His head tilted to one side as his scrutiny lazily skittered to my sockless feet, back to my bare chest and bruised shoulders. “Worthless scum. You live in a black box. I bask in a luxury apartment overlooking Hyde Park. I think we can all agree that I have come out of this situation on top.”

MhicLeòid is incorrect. I resided in the solitude of my mind, where life was devilishly good, positively dark and gruesomely imaginative.

“Hyde Park, huh?” I nearly laughed at the man’s distorted sense of humour. “That’s impressive for a middle-class individual. It must be a nice walk from there to Canary Wharf. Fantastic views of The River Thames.” Yes, I am in the mood to play. “Have you had the pleasure of seeing the spectacular skyscrapers from a birds-eye view at night?”

His smug smile vanished in a nanosecond.

“It is a truly remarkable sight,” I said, remembering the cold night wind on my face when I stood on the balcony of my private penthouse with a glass of whiskey in hand. “Imagine that, living the high life, like the head of state, watching the less fortunate scurry around the streets below, wishing they knew how it felt to oversee such an incredible city from the vantage of a billionaire’s gilded fortress.” My sarcasm cannot be sanitised. “You can almost taste it, can you not? Inexhaustible wealth.”

“You conceited nonce,” he snarled, and I had to uncurl my fingers before I did something reckless like punch him to death. Unlike the cowards in the room, I did not need a knife to get my point across, a baton to weaken the opposition. I can do serious damage if he is up for the challenge. I learnt from the best. Rex (my former boxing instructor) taught me how to weaponise my fists when I was new to the life of crime. I can outbox each and every one of them. And they know it. “A penthouse bought with the disgusting act of blood money does not impress me.”

“If I wanted to impress you, I would vaunt the prowess of sharp-witted avariciousness. After all, the exceptional obsession I have with success got me Billionaires Row.” A muscle in my cheek twitched. “An excellent conglomeration of lucrative business ventures and rare sports cars you could only dream of owning. I could go on all day: gold, diamonds and designers. A beautiful wife and chosen son.”

MhicLeòid’s stare sharpened.

“Enough about me, though. The floor is yours to wander.” Gesturing to the imaginary stage between us, I folded my arms and rested my back on the wall. “Do tell me about a scum-less man’s shot at ersatz prosperity. I am all ears.”

His chest rattled with chortles of bounteous mockery. “Is this a battle of one-upmanship?” In a predictable yet performative act of police brutality, he lashed out, striking me across the face with a strong, violent, sharp belt of the baton, and fuck if I did not go down like a sack of shit. I saw stars-again, my body keeling over on the floor, the most excruciating pain crawling beneath the surface of my flesh and taking possession of my jaw. “Know your fucking place, nonce!”

A low, guttural noise got stuck in my throat. Tasting fresh blood in my mouth and on my tongue, I repositioned to my side and blinked rapidly to regain vision, to no avail.

That last blow knocked the wind out of me, quite literally, and the once-forgotten strain in my bulbous eye re-emerged like a never-ending hangover from Hell.

If I go blind because of this mindless idiot, I will kiss my old life outside of prison goodbye and surrender to the natural instinct to kill. Red is my favourite colour. I will happily paint the walls with his blood and scatter the remnants of his organs on the floor, no-holds-barred.

“Vengeance is a reminder of how not to bite the hand that feeds you.” Bronwyn’s leathered foot slammed onto my back to pin me to the floor and prevent a counterattack. Another wasteful opportunity for him to guarantee himself a painless death in the future. “Are you listening to me?”

“You will only learn the true definition of vengeance when punishment is bestowed upon you,” I groaned through gritted teeth, the heel of his shoe deepening into my back, searing my skin and clicking a few bones. “Get the fuck off me, or I will-”

“You will what?” A meaty hand on my skull replaced the foot on my back. He put all his weight on me, his fingers wrangling in my hair, thrusting my cheek to the floor with a ridiculous amount of force. I am not even fighting back. “Is the nonce threatening me again?”

Although I could barely see straight or think clearly, I smiled to myself, to the cowardly prison officers by the door, standing guard whilst an official employee of the prison service overplayed the power harassment card. “Affirmative.”

“Fucking rapist!” MhicLeòid booted me in the ribs, and white-hot pain ricocheted through my side. I never had the chance to hold my breath, to prepare myself for the unsympathetic sequence of relentless abuse. He was out for blood. My blood. Each kick is harder and more forceful than the last. “You disrespectful waste of space! Apologise! Now!”

I would rather die by the sword than express regret or beg for mercy from such a contemptible man. “Never-”

“So, help me, God! You will respect me, Warren!” His thighs straddled the base of my spine as he wrestled with me on the floor. “Don’t just stand there!” He lambasted the spineless watchers. “Throw me the blade!”

“Boss,” one of them whispered, a frosty air of uncertainty. “What about the others? Now is not the time.”

The others, I thought as I lay completely still on the floor. My heart was in my throat, jack-hammering erratically, feverishly, as I knew, what I had questioned previously, when suspecting grains of poison in the food and watching razor blades slide under the door, that MhicLeòid wanted me out of the picture.

Someone had placed a bounty on my head.

MhicLeòid would be the one to deliver unwarrantable encroachment and fatal finality because every other method of murder failed miserably for whoever wanted my head on a silver platter.

I never took the bait, scarfed down poisoned meals or sliced through protuberant veins. I starved first and disregarded improvised weapons.

Blood trickled down my cheek. I felt it, warm, sticky and wet. But where it came from, I could not tell you. I suspected a busted eyebrow or a minor crack to the skull-one or the other.

“Careful.” Fingernails clawing at the concrete floor, I lifted my gaze to the young lad in the hallway, the one snickering at my expense. He was a blur, a doubled figure, but there was a humoured smile. “A nebbish has no business in private affairs.”

His blurry face reddened, the smile slipping into tight-lipped silence.

“Do come in and perform xenial duties like a good old lapdog,” I murmured, my tongue heavy, thick and dry. “I promise not to bite.”

“Fuck you, Warren.” Still, the colour drained from the lad’s pallid face, that’s if you exclude the ginormous pimples on his oversized forehead, of course. “I am not scared of an old man on dying legs.”

I suppose I was getting on a bit. Calling me an old man is an exaggeration, though. And an insult, if I ever heard one.

“Dying legs?” I asked with feigned cluelessness, which he would be docile to interpret. I am always ten steps ahead of an opponent. I do love to mind-fuck gullible dullards. “I am lost. Do elaborate.”

The lad glanced from me to the end of the hall, checking to see ifthe otherswere about, then back to me. “If you are still alive and kicking by the end of the month, I will give away my entire life savings.” He is very cock sure of himself. I hope he’s ready to sail his arse up the river along with the lousy bank balance. “You pissed off a lot of people, Warren. One man is offering big bucks to put you in the ground. We’d be stupid not to snap his hand off. You understand.”

“And then what?” I probed, and his eyebrows snapped together. “Let me hear this ideal scenario. You kill me, dead, buried and long gone. You receive big bucks to trade those ankle biters for a nice pair of smart trousers. Perhaps you will treat yourself to a top-of-the-range car.”

“Just give me the knife,” MhicLeòid demanded, impatience coming off him in waves, but his allies were not prepared for impulsive behaviour. Sure, they wanted this so-called money from the highest bidder-Italian, I am sure-but what is wealth behind bars if they get caught in the act? Patience is a virtue. More rewarding. “Goddamnit! Now might be the only chance!”

“Enjoyment, however, is beyond your reach,” I continued to put the fear of God into the observant officers. “I might be a criminal mastermind and the orchestrator behind the omnipresence of violence and lawlessness in the city of vice, but I am one of many certifiable gangsters wreaking havoc. Do you believe my death will give enemies room to reach the pinnacle of unbounded prosperity?”

Each guard shared a look of uneasiness.

“The underworld is not to be treated flippantly.” My teeth painfully grounded when MhicLeòid yanked my arms behind my back, his ringed fingers locking around my wrists. “The day I die is the day you have a target on your back, for every man that signed a blood oath, promising allegiance, devotion, loyalty and piety to Liam Warren is, by code of conduct, expected to honour his name with the souls of those who wronged him. And do not, for one second, think revenge will end with you. I purposefully sought men with nothing to lose, killers who thrive in depravity and immorality.”

MhicLeòid rambled on about the knife.

“My men will extract the hearts of everyone you hold dear with their bare hands. You might want to say goodbye to your dutiful wives and precious children.” Brad will be on a mission, torching properties and feeding dead bodies to the ravenous fishes. “I get the feeling they will be the start of chaos and retribution.”

I belatedly realised Bronwyn MhicLeòid had grown rather silent and eerily still. He is renowned for throwing his weight about, intimidating everyone in his path for the simple fact that he can, but the extemporaneous speech by yours truly had seemingly trapped his tongue.

“Look at that,” I managed to find the strength to grit out another witty remark, using the rough concrete floor to efface the bloody saliva on my cracked lips. “Silence always provides the answers.”

MhicLeòid let go of my wrists so that he could stand. I immediately withdrew my arms, slipping my hands beneath my chest to blanket the ache in my wrists.

Once more, I had sore marks on my skin as a reminder of who runs shit around here. My thumb outlined every single abrasion in contemplation. Anger had yet to decrease in range or immersion. MhicLeòid had no idea what I had in store for him and the others, that much I can guarantee.

Bronwyn crouched beside me, his elbows resting on his thighs, his fingers threading together idly. “Learn to observe,” he advised the men; their only response was a disagreeable grunt. “Do not respond to antagonism. Warren is desperately trying to get inside your heads, and it’s working…” He bolted into an upright stance when I suddenly got to my feet, keeping a somewhat safe distance between us. Not that I am ever truly safe when he is on the prowl, the hunt for blood. “I am not afraid of you, Warren.”

“You should be.” I stared at him with unwaveringly hard eyes. “I have castrated and disembowelled for less.” My hands, bespattered with dirt and dry blood, raised slowly, albeit mockingly, to let him know I meant no harm. “You are awfully quiet when anxious.”

MhicLeòid is in my direct line of vision, the focal point of attention, but scrutinisation is not the only area of focus. I had to keep an eye on the guards, too, as this particular group of potential killers had pound signs flashing in their eyes like a chiming slot machine.

“Let’s wipe that self-righteous smirk off his face, shall we?” The head guard extended an upward-facing hand toward the door, and one of the men slapped a sizable brown envelope onto his palm. “How long have you waited for the mail, Warren? Days? Weeks? Months?”

I received mail from all over the world on a regular basis. Female groupies, I will call them, with a fetish for convicted criminals behind bars. The number of nude photos I have seen since the hurry-up wagon brought me to Belmarsh is no one’s business. “You know I have many fans.”

“Hypristophilia does not count.” MhicLeòid tossed the envelope on the floor by my feet. “I meant your wife.”

My spine straightened.

I have waited for what felt like an eternity for Alexa’s words. My woman got tired of rejection and decided to hang fire. I cannot remember the last time she penned a note for me or sent a photo of herself.

“Fuck my wife,” I said throatily, hating myself for disrespecting her repeatedly when faced with complications and quandaries.

Bronwyn MhicLeòid’s smile stretched right across his face. “I will leave those with you.” His legs carried him toward the doorway, where he stilled for a beat to get the last word in. “You know, I remember this one time, there was a man, not much older than you, who successfully killed himself in this very cell.” He uprooted a plastic fork from his trouser pocket and threw it on the envelope, the improvised weapon skittering on the floor noisily. “Gouged his eyes out and bled to death. Maybe you will do us all a favour and take a leaf out of his book.”

I deserve a pat on the back for the uncharacteristic stint of self-control. “Apocryphal stories whisper through the walls at night,” I said calmly, fighting the urge to grab the fork, snap the brittle stem and stab him in the internal jugular vein. “Insanity perpetually poisons the responsible segment of my brain, day in, day out, and it tells me, you will die, and I will be the fortunate bastard that gets to kill you.” Leaning down, I tucked the envelope under my arm and, with a brief spell of light-headedness, put my back to the wall. “A rare promise.”

MhicLeòid, with a huge, triumphant smile, tapped on the open door with the tip of a baton. “You are not worth a dime.”

I am certainly worth listening to. “The laughable display of desperation and covetousness contradicts your statement. You are willing to risk everything for my head. Tell me, MhicLeòid. Will murder by proxy pay you well?”

“Nine and a half million,” he punctuated each syllable, his tongue rolling back and forth sloppily. “More if I make your death look like a suicide.”

“Almost ten million.” Derision is only the beginning for this cesspit of incontinence. “Yet, I am a dime in a dozen. And here, I thought I was good at mathematical equations. You might have to break it down for me.”

His nostrils flared.

“I suppose I should get back to my bed.” Eying the uncomfortable floor with mirthful amusement, I scratched the line of my jaw with rigid fingers. “Rest is imperative for my bank account. Did you know I made billions whilst I slept? Perks of being a worthless man.”

“I loathe you,” he hissed.

“The feeling is very fucking mutual,” I retorted, not taking my eyes off him until he was out of sight, the door slamming on its hinges. “Prick.”

Lights out.

Darkness.

Confinement is going to erase me.

Minutes ticked.

Hours passed.

And I stood in the corner of the cell, contemplating life before imprisonment, wondering if I could have done things differently to avoid all of this madness.

I used to consider myself a smart man, but self-doubt had started to fester a while back when I first transferred to solitary confinement and realised that I only had my thoughts to contend with, which is the most taunting part of isolation.

Rumination is the giver of evil. It caused hallucinations and fucked with your head. It compelled you to talk to your demons and entertain illogicality for reasons I have yet to determine.

The brown envelope. I could not see it, but I itched to open it.

In the dark recess of the night, I slid down the wall in defeat and blindly reached for Bronwyn MhicLeòid’s final nail in the coffin. I did not need to look inside the envelope to know it was bad. His self-assured smirk conveyed a silent but painful message. He’d already tampered with the seal, the edge frayed and sticky, the pages creased during police inspection.

Something hard and cold fell into my hand, a small torch, and I turned it on and sprayed light on the printout of Brad and my brother, Vincent, enjoying a night at the reggae bar, drinking whiskey and smoking blunts with the type of warm smiles that could brighten any dark room.

I thought about them together, how they managed to be in each other’s company without the threat of murder.

They seemed happy, like life-long friends celebrating something I was not privy to. It put a genuine smile on my face, the fact someone as stubborn as Brad could put his differences aside to be in the same proximity as my brother.

For my benefit, I bet. He would tolerate him, possibly grow fond of him, if it meant I could sleep better at night.

The next photo stabbed my arms with goosebumps. My face inched closer for a more defined look of my chosen son and heir, Logan, leaning over a pool table, bare-chested with unbuttoned denim jeans, in what looked like a wood-panelled basement overcrowded with youths, teen girls and teen boys, drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes.

Beer bottles and semi-naked girls was not what got my hackles to rise. It was the topless girl sprawled out on the green felt, surrounded by multicoloured balls, a pool cue dangling from her hand whilst my boy sniffed cocaine off her breasts.

“I will fucking kill him,” I spoke to the former souls of inmates, the ones that allegedly killed themselves in this very cell. “Motherfucker!” Scrunching the printout into a ball, I speared it into the air, hearing a slight thump on the floor somewhere. “Logan…”

My mind raced in search of answers. I did not understand. How can he be so stupid? He is just a kid. He had his whole life ahead of him. And how did he get away with debauchery, anyway? My men are required to watch him, to take care of him, to keep him on the straight and narrow.

“Ren!” My voice bellowed as I crawled across the floor to the door. He could be down the hall for all I know. He ventured down here on occasion. “Ren, I need you to come here!” My palms struck the door. “It’s fucking urgent!”

My son…

I had to get a message across to my boy.

Ear to the steel door, I listened for any signs of movement, for footsteps that never came, for a man that did not materialise.

Five seconds later, I caught the irked huff of a different prison guard, the grouchy female who likes to order pizza and watch documentaries on the staff television throughout the night.

I will have no luck with her. I could scream until blue in the face, and she would not get her arse out of that chair.

Thrusting a hand through my hair, I fell back on my haunches, then sprayed light on the scattered printout images on the floor. I had many to choose from: Nate at the gym, Josh at the petrol station, Brad at the club. Then, unrecognisable faces of men in suits and chains. They worked for me, for Warren Enterprise, but I did not know their names or ranks. Newly hired, I guess. I trusted my right-hand man with every facet of my life, so it came as no surprise that he extended our army. It’s what I would have done had I not received the worst sentencing in history.

A thought occurred to me.

My heart dropped.

Rushing across the floor to find the photo of Logan, I ironed out the creases with the palm of my hand. I was still angry at him for the reckless behaviour, for the girl and the drugs, but the person responsible for this envelope had my stomach twisted in knots. Whoever captured these images had gotten close to my loved ones, befriended them, tracked and surveyed them, and sent me the evidence.

Evidence of what, though?

Bad behaviour? Happiness? Forgetfulness?

What is the sender trying to tell me?

My family.

They are happy without me.

They have moved on and forgotten about me.

Pressing the heel of my hand into the side of my head, I thumped my skull, once, twice, three times, to silence the voice of nonsensicality. I will not think ill of my loved ones. Their only crime is existing in a world where I am not present.

The sender got too close to my boy, close enough to party with him and other teenagers. Does that mean he is young? Is this a kid playing games with me? I struggled to decipher the code, the message. Maybe I am not looking hard enough or reading between the lines. I am missing something.

Logan is at a party with friends. I am unfamiliar with the layout, so I can only assume he is there by association. He is unsupervised. Where is the twenty-four-hour surveillance? Where is the protection for my son?

My blood boiled hot.

Brad is sagacious. He would never take his eye off the ball. Logan is at the utmost priority alongside my wife, which means security detail is always present.

A bodyguard.

A rat amongst men.

Fingers tightening on the photo, I squeezed the flimsy paper into a ball again, letting it fall to the floor by my knees. I was wrong. I am never wrong.

“Fuck.” Rubbing the scruff of my jaw, I glared at the locked door as fear, like never before, slithered into my veins. “You fucked up.” My words whispered into the air like mist in the winter. “Why did you fuck up, Warren?”

I thought I was in control of the situation. I thought I had it all figured out. If I cut them off, Alexa, Logan, Vincent and the brothers, the threat would stay on me. But it’s deeper than that, isn’t it? The Italians would not be satisfied until everything I cared about and everyone I loved paid the price for my ignorance.

I was about to strike the door to get the guard off her arse when the torch flickered on an image that grabbed my attention. Vincent, in a steel grey suit, his shirt unbuttoned by the collar, his hair tousled and out of place, is leaving Warren Manor at the crack of dawn. I stared hard, thinking of justifiable reasons for him spending the night at my home with my wife when I am not present.

I studied the photo intently as if to wait for the scene to change, to see the dark sky brighten and the dishevelled suit to be fixed appropriately, but neither transpired. No matter how hard I fought with pessimistic viewpoints, I could not change reality. It was there in black and white.

Vincent is in another image at the Manor, only this time, he is arriving earlier, with a picturesque sunset as the backdrop and a matte black Bugatti on the driveway.

My mind glitched. I swiped through printout after printout, the torch shaking in my hand, until another piece of evidence slammed the brakes on mental turmoil.

My beautiful wife.

Mrs Warren.

Just Alexa, her long, straightened hair thrown up in a high ponytail, the most glamorous of dresses, black and fitted, to compliment the red-bottomed heels. Faux fur coat, designer handbag and mesmerising smile.

My heart took flight.

Collapsing onto my backside, I raised the photo closer to my face, finger tracing the flawless lines of her slender legs.

A tall, brawny bodyguard is by her side, carrying numerous bags, courtesy of my wife’s love for high-end shopping trips to Bond Street.

I wonder how many shoes she purchased that day or if she admired any handbags on her travels or stopped for a bite to eat. A neat vodka.

“I am in love with you,” I said, knowing how much she needed to hear me say it. If only life had been more forgiving. If only hindsight had come to me sooner. I would make myself more available to her, be the one to take her into town to splash out, to wine and dine her, the only way I knew how, with love and extravagance. “Fuck.”

I would give anything to see her right this very second, to hear her comforting words, to feel her arms around me, her lips on me. A kiss, smile, laugh or promise. I missed her promises, the loving glint in her eyes when she looked at me like I was the be-all and end-all of her entire existence.

Pain and confusion surpassed love and nostalgia. I espied another photo on the floor, and my soul left my body. I nearly looked away, turned off the torch and retreated to the corner of the cell, but curiosity got the better of me. I had to understand why Vincent and Alexa became the centrepiece of betrayal.

I lost count after twenty, the images of them together alternately slipping through my fingers.

My brain worked overtime as I memorised every shot of them in public, day and night, his protective arm across her shoulders, her body snuggled close to his side. They looked close, too close, happy and infatuated, like they’d just started a relationship, the honeymoon period.

It gets worse. Alexa frequented Vincent’s reggae bar more than once, with different outfits and sexier heels, always glamorous, as if to attend a date. And he is always there to greet her at the door, a smile from ear to ear, a predatory look in his eyes or a covetous hand on her lower spine.

His mouth is on her cheek.

His lips are by her ear, whispering sweet nothings…

Alexa smiled at him.

The type of smile she saved for me.

A loving smile.

Why does he hold her hand?

Why does she allow it?

My eyebrows bowed.

Torment inserted itself when my eyes briefly closed. Alexa is in the master bedroom, sprawled out on the bed, completely naked, her wild, lustrous hair fanned across the pillow, her beautiful body dusted in goosebumps, her breasts perk, and her nipples delectable.

Hypersensitivity.

Hallucinations.

Nightmares.

Headaches.

Dizziness.

Impossible rage.

Obsessive rumination.

Revenge fantasies.

How do I reconstruct the sense of helpless victimisation when left for twenty-three hours a day in lockdown?

One of the negative physiological reactions to isolation is to over analyse everything about everyone, especially when menials like Bronwyn planted the seed of doubt in my head. Or when an anonymous sender provided cryptic photos of my wife and my brother, leaving me to imagine the worst possible outcome.

“Be quiet,” Vincent breathed in my wife’s ear as his hips rocked between her thighs. “Someone might hear you.”

Naked. Sweat. Skin on skin.

Inmybed.

“Vincent,” Alexa moaned, desperate to feel his mouth on her lips. “Oh, God.” Her fingernails seared down his spine, leaving red marks on his flesh. “Please don’t stop.”

My eyes snapped open.

Vincent is a dead man.

I will kill him.

Dropping the photos in disgust, I scrambled to my feet and backed away from nonsensical thoughts. I trusted my wife wholeheartedly. Alexa is one of the good girls. She has never given me a reason to doubt her loyalty. Yet, I cannot unsee them in bed together, the sheets tangled between their legs, the glass windowpane thick with condensation.

“Why are you shocked?”A whispered voice raked down my spine.“You know what’s in front of you. You have always known the truth.”

“No,” I mumbled into nothingness, shaking my head in denial. “I will not yield!”

Vincent. You saw how he looked at Alexa and how his demeanour shifted whenever she entered the room. You overlooked his wandering hands and approving eyes. Yourefusedto believe that he was capable of hurting you, that she was likely to trade you for someoneyounger.

A red veil fell over my eyes. Rage mixed with sadness seized my heart as my fists pounded at the wall to relieve the pain in my chest, raw, battered and bloody.

Bones cracked.

Blood bespattered.

Not Alexa.

I can handle anything life throws at me, except the loss of my wife.

I do not recall the moment I blacked out and drifted into the pit of merciless unconsciousness, but I do remember the agonising sensation in my hands when I awakened hours-or was it days?-later on the cold floor.

My swollen eye had sealed over completely. I could not see through it, the accumulation of fluid causing a spasm in my cheek, a concerning tremor.

It was relatively dark in the cell, with only a smidgen of light casting shadows across the wall. Jodie Capwell, the senior staff member from the thirty-three inpatient healthcare unit,is by the open doorway in a skin-tight black dress and sling-back kitten heels.

“You had a conniption fit.” Jodie’s heeled shoes scraped along the floor as she bridged the gap between us. “Immobilisation,” she explained when I tried to flex my splint-taped fingers. “Broken knuckles. Are you in any pain?”

My heart was ripped out of my chest and fed to the wolves. My woman, the love of my life, is warming another man’s bed. Not just any man. My brother. My own flesh and blood. “No,” I lied, the mind imbued with negative content. “Yes.”

“Why did you lose composure?” Jodie’s knees went to the floor next to my head. “You can talk to me about anything.” Her thumb circled my cheek with tender precision. “I am here to help you, Warren.”

“I do not belong in solitary confinement.” My cheek bore the impact of the uneven floor as I gazed at the shadows on the wall. “I committed no crime.”

Jodie’s breath trembled. “Mr MhicLeòid uncovered contraband in your cell.”

Bronwyn MhicLeòid lied. “I will die if I stay here.” My life depended on a transfer out of this shithole. “There is a target on my back, Jodie.”

“You are paranoid.” Her manicured fingernails tickled the nape of my neck. “Nobody is out to get you.” Transparent green glasses sat on her aquiline nose. “I worry that you may be a danger to yourself, though.”

“I am fine,” I said with hostile deliberateness. “I am not suicidal.”

“Admitting fault and apologising to Mr Howard is a desideratum if you want to be returned to the lifers’ wing.” Silky, straight black hair, weaved into a thick braid, fell down her back. “Just…Own what you did. Stubbornness will not get you anywhere.”

“Never,” I shut her down, not having a bar of it. “I will never bow to inferiority. That pathetic excuse of a man is beneath me.”

Irritated by her affection, I snatched her wrist to forestall the tender loving strokes to my cheek, shoving her arm out of my way. Then, with a deep breath of fusty air, I used all my strength to reverse onto my back, my legs stretched out on the floor, my taped-up hands resting on my stomach.

“You remind me of a Spartan warrior.” Her hungry eyes roved over my chest and abs with overt approval. “I might like it.”

A tight smirk. “I am athletically impressive.”

“I concur.” She was desperate for a romantic dalliance. “You get bigger and bigger, Warren. How do you keep fit without sufficient meals and gym equipment?”

Twenty-three hours a day in disciplinary isolation is inconceivable to some, but that is my reality. I forgot the time, minutes, hours, days, weeks and months to preserve my sanity.

Sanity.

What fucking sanity?

I lost a piece of my mind every day.

Exercise is the best way to stay focused. I get my blood pumping first, jogging on the spot with my eyes closed. I travelled elsewhere, to the fields of greenery, the sun on my face, and music in my ears.

An intense circuit in the cell is mandatory, but I spend the majority of my free time doing press-ups. I am not in prison, though. I am in the master bedroom with my wife curled up in bed, her cheek on my outstretched arm, her curly, lustrous hair twirling between my fingers, her long, thick eyelashes kissing her cheeks.

My favourite part of the day is when she woke up and nuzzled onto my chest. There was always a place for her in my arms.

“Warren…” A smirk died on Jodie’s lips. “I lost you again.”

“I need a favour.” My heart burrowed deeper into my chest. “My family is in grave peril. You must go to my wife-”

“No.” Jodie gave me a look of deep disapprobation. “You ask too much of me, Warren. I bend many rules for you, but an informal meeting with your wife is too far. I mean…” A loud, breathy sigh escaped her lips. “How can you be so insensitive? Do you want her to know about us? A visit from me will break her heart.”

“Jodie.” My hand went to her thigh, and goosebumps sprouted on her skin. “How can a visit from you break my wife’s heart? I am not familiar with your lips or your body. I have never kissed you. I have never accepted an offer to fuck you. You can stop interrogating yourself now.”

Jodie, with owl-eyed stupefaction, stared daggers at me. She whacked my hand away with a furious snarl. “You lied to me,” she snapped, realising that I had no intention of leaving my wife. “You led me on. You allowed me to believe in something untrue!”

I am naturally reticent when disinterested.

“What of the divorce?” Her eyes glittered with tears of melancholy and heartbreak. “You better start talking, Warren!”

“And you better watch your mouth.” In no mood for the woman’s theatrical jeremiad, I got to my feet, inwardly berating myself for wincing in front of her, but the agony gnawing at my insides forced my hand. “I suppose you think I did all this to myself, the swollen eye, the bruised ribs. Must be the suicidal tendencies.”

“Oh, piss off.” Jodie stood then, dusting off her knees, with jejune remarks under her breath. “Mr MhicLeòid is a professional. If he lost his patience and put you in your place, you must have deserved it.”

“Right,” I replied bitterly. “I deserved an eye injury, did I? Fuck you. Fuck all of you. When I get out of here-because I will get out, one way or another-I am going to gut that motherfucker like a fish.” Our noses were practically touching. “If you are lucky, I will send you his remains.”

“When is it going to register?” Her competitiveness is coming out. “You will never, ever be released from prison! Get over it already!”

“You have no idea how wrong you are,” I said whispery, and her lips tightened. “I am too smart for this shit. When one door closes, another one opens. Life is rough. I sleep on the floor. I eat cold food. I go days without a shower. But I did my time back then, when I was wet behind the ears, young, foolish and naive. That’s how it started for me: abandonment, homelessness, starvation and malnourishment. I survived. I got through it and will get through it again because I am built that way. I thrive in chaos. It makes me stronger. I come out fighting harder than I have ever had to fight before. Do you think a cunt like MhicLeòid is going to tear me down? That a bent judge’s ruling is powerful enough to dissemble everything I have sold my soul for?”

Her lips parted to speak, but there were no words. Only silence.

“I am Liam fucking Warren,” I spat angrily, and she backed up three steps. “You do not tell me to sit the fuck down! I am responsible for the outcome! Me!” My palm slapped my chest, the loud strike resounding throughout the cell. “I decide. My word is law. Final. My empire is impenetrable. My army is unconquerable.” My heartbeat thumped into a steady, moderate rhythm. “No matter what life throws at me, I always come out on top. So, defend MhicLeòid and the Governor. Turn a blind eye to the abuse inflicted on inmates. Visit my wife and prepare my family for the perilousness that lies ahead, or don’t. Iwillavail, with or without help. Iwillcontinue to flourish, with or without enemies. Iwillbe the last man standing, with or without freedom.”

A quivered breath trembled her lips.

“You should never fuck with crazy people.” My finger tapped the side of my head. “Not when they have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

An errant tear fell down Jodie’s blotchy cheek. She wiped it away, sniffled, and then she rushed for the exit route as fast as her wobbly legs could carry her.

“Until we meet again, Miss Capwell,” I said lowly, just as she disappeared through the door, the lock clicking, the bolt securing. “Bitch.”

Isolation reached a nadir the next day when a guard put a meal through the latch in the door: bread and water and a bowl of mashed potato commingled with swede.

I picked up the tray and threw it at the wall. I would rather starve.

The guard returned. He squatted by the wall and used his fingers to scoop up the sludge on the floor.

I knew what to expect. He would mash the bread and potato together, slap it on the tray and dump it by my feet.

As predicted, a sloppy loaf of squished food is placed on the floor in front of me.

My left eye twitched.

“Eat,” he ordered, and I rolled over, facing the wall. “Eat, or I will force-feed you.”

My eyes followed the scratches on the wall, the fingernail marks left behind by former prisoners. “Not if you want to keep your fingers.”

A sharp inhalation of breath. “You would not dare.”

“Have you met me?” My neck craned to get a good look at him. He was short, scrawny and skittish. An easy target. “I am the worst of our kind.”

He adjusted the black-framed bifocals on the tip of his nose. “I am nothing like you.”

I gave him a short, caustic laugh. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

A door slammed.

Locked and bolted.

And in no particular order…

Darkness.

Boredom.

Loneliness.

Insanity.

I slept like a baby, waking up hours later to Alsatians barking in the yard. Those pesky dogs will be the death of me. I rubbed my good eye, the undamaged eye, then heard an almost inaudiblepsstby the door.

Convinced I was dreaming, I rolled idly on the floor until my body faced the door and glared at the opened hatch, the faint light, and the familiar eyes of the silver-haired, wizened guard.

I never showed or expressed the emotions I felt at that moment, but I secretly acknowledged the lump in my throat and the moisture in my eyes.

“Warren,” Ren whispered, his wrinkled hand appearing through the hatch, his fragile fingers beckoning me to come closer. “Here. I got you a nice bite to eat. Hurry. I only have five minutes.”

Moving to the door, I sat opposite him, legs crossed, and accepted the sandwich: fresh bread, rich butter and decent ham. I wolfed it down in four bites, cramming the crust in my mouth and licking my lips.

“Here you go.” He handed over a bottle of apple juice. It never touched the sides. I swallowed every last drop, savouring its fruity flavours on my tongue. “I got you a cig, too.” A Lambert and Butler and a disposable lighter. “Be quick.”

Placing the cigarette between my lips, I sparked a lighter flame and paused to allow the smoke to roll down my throat slowly. “A taste of heaven,” I spoke thickly, and he chuckled, retrieving the lighter and tucking it in his trouser pocket. “You are a good man, Ren.”

A pregnant pause. “I do my best.”

“Why do you stay?” I asked the same question whenever he paid a visit. “Get out, fly across the sky, land on a powder-white beach with crystalline waters and-”

“Find myself a pretty bird?” he mused, sick and tired of my lectures. “Yeah, alright. I got your message the last time. I will go to an island someday. Gotta get my ducks in a row first.”

I stared deep into the saddest depths of his eyes, the wrinkles on his face and the age spots on his skin. He’s a hard life. “The eyes never lie,” I said, whispering smoke through my teeth. “It has not been an easy road for you, has it, Ren?”

“What did I tell you during the last late-night visit, huh?” the wise old man asked, and I braced myself for his words of wisdom. “There are people out there who’ve had it ten times harder than me. I have lived a long, somewhat healthy life. If I die tomorrow, I know there is not much more I could have done in the world.”

Smoke crawled out of my mouth. “Do you remember when I got a visit from Alberto Moretti? He was close to Dane Russell.”

“Yeah, I remember him. The Italian guy in a fancy suit.” Ren’s head bopped at the memory. “Your friend never came back. I assumed he would.”

Alberto is not a friend. “Moretti gave me a gift before he left London.” His daughter, Angelica, and the code to a private safety deposit box near Hatton Garden. “I need you to do something for me. Get your phone out. Save this code.” Reeling off the digits, I waited for him to comply. “Go to Ultra Vault. Find the rightful locker and unlock it. I want you to take what’s inside.”

“I don’t know, Warren…” The possibility of criminal activity troubled Ren. He does not want to be wrapped up in gangster politics. “Will I get in trouble? What’s inside the locker? I ain’t touching anything illegal, alright? I’m too old for that nonsense.”

“You will find out when you get there,” I assured him with straight-faced confidence. “If you do not come back to the prison, I will assume you made the right choice.”

Ren is on the fence, too old and timid to be beaten down by law enforcement. But he trusted me enough to nod in agreement. “I better not regret this.”

My expression gave nothing away.

“Did Jodie take a look at your eye?” He stuffed the phone in his trouser pocket. “I worry about you, kid. I don’t like the way they treat you. I wish I could do more, you know? But I don’t stand a chance against those guards…”

Respiring a cloud of smoke, I inhaled one more drag, then put out the cigarette on the floor. “I got it handled.” My ears detected conversations in the distance. “I need another favour. Two, actually.”

Ren is quiet.

“Get a copy of The Alchemist from the library and leave it with Jerome. He must read the book in its entirety. Tell him, I will ask him about Santiago when I get back to the wing, so he better not try and pull the wool over my eyes.”

“I can do that for you,” he promised, and my shoulders sagged with relief. “What’s the other favour?”

“I need you to go to my son, Logan. It’s a big ask. You need to be careful. My men do not trust outsiders…” Brad is not the friendliest of humans. “More importantly, I want you to carry out this assignment in a temporary state of secretiveness.” Fuck, I am wrong to demand the old man’s help when I know it could endanger him. “Do you understand?”

He blinked owlishly. “Why does it have to be done in secret?”

“There are eyes out there,” I said cryptically, and his tongue pushed into his cheek, a puzzled shadow creeping over his face. “I have enemies that would not think twice about hurting you to get to me. Anyone that provides a service to me is considered a threat. You see why the stealth approach is imperative?”

“Yeah…” He sounded unsure though, like he could not commit to the task. “What do I say to you boy, if I agree to track him down for you?”

“That I love him,” I said without hesitation, the words more powerful than any beat down or threat. He is a good kid. But he’s lost and I had to bring him back. “And that I am proud of him.”

“That’s really sweet, Warren. Your boy is lucky to have a dad like you.” He huffed out a huge breath. “Look, I can’t make any promises, but I will see what I can do.”

The voices in the distance were closing in on us. “And if you so happen to bump into Brad Jones,” I added, praying that he can deliver this message. “Man overboard.”

“Man overboard? That’s all you want to say? He’s gonna look at me like I’m senile.” His head shook in perplexity. “You don’t make sense, Warren. This is why I worry so much. You got a couple of screws loose.”

“I am tired,” I said, the guards getting closer and closer to the hallway. “Leave.”

Ren’s head jerked back in surprise. “Yeah, alright. No need to be rude.” A groan ripped through his throat as he unfolded himself from the crouched position by the door, the bones in his knees clicking and squelching. He closed the hatch. I could no longer see him. “I will see you soon.”

A smirk teased my lips.

No, Ren. I very much doubt that you will be back any time soon, but I look forward to receiving a postcard. One of many, perhaps. He got an entire bucket list to tick off. An adventure ahead of him.

Listening to the man’s footsteps as he retreated down the dimly lit corridor, I breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the double doors just in time for the night guards to enter for their shift. They would have given him a dog’s life if they caught him talking to me. The old fool is hard of hearing. He would still be here now if I had never sent him packing.

The hatch flipped open.

A pair of eyes.

Bronwyn MhicLeòid

“I have tried really fucking hard to keep my cool with you,” I said before the toffee-nosed cunt opened his trap. “You have beaten me, threatened me and ridiculed me over and over again, and I have allowed it because I got bigger fish to fry.” A one-way ticket out of Hell. “And I forgot who I am in the process. Call it depression. I lost my way for a while.”

MhicLeòid’s steely eyes slithered into slits as he scowled back at me through the hatch. He is uncharacteristically quiet, which means I have his undivided attention.

“If you take one step into this cell, I will remove that baton from your arse and ram it down your goddamn throat.” And I meant it with every fibre of my being. Fuck the exoneration, the chance of freedom. He will be dead in less than five seconds. “Of course, you do not have to take my word for it. By all means, unlock the door and welcome yourself to my humble abode. Let’s see how many organs I can sever with that plastic fork before your heart gives out.”

MhicLeòid shut the hatch.

I get to live for another day.