| BOOK FOUR | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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I walked the route of a meandering cobblestone path, the grey, unshaped brickwork laborious in six-inch heels. Moss-covered trees finely fringed the edges of the walkway, blocking out the early morning sun. Insidious ravens cawed near the timber-framed outbuildings near the eldritch yet historically aesthetic mausoleum, which had a beautiful design of twisting ivy vines and dead flowers. Beyond the enchanted garden and gravel driveway is the fourteenth-century house. It had pointed arch windows boxed in rickety shutters, gothic revival entrance, honed roof gables and the eeriest of dense fogs.
The perpendicular architecture was splendorous.
Frost enriched the gelid air, and crisp, fallen leaves crunched under my footsteps. Despite the bitterly cold weather, I felt rejuvenated, reawakened. I wandered with a spring in my step, a radiant smile on my face, a tuneful song in mind.
Peeling black suede gloves from my fingers, I wiped the rime-formed windshield of the black Bentley vehicle mounted on the grassy knoll. There are empty bottles of Jameson on the passenger seat, crushed beer cans on the floor, which macerated the carpet.
Respiring a misted breath, I gazed from the car to the house. It very much reminded me of the medieval mansions nobleman's inhabited in the Middle Ages.
Passing the waist-high brick wall to the wooden, church-style door adorned in intricate metalwork, I banged the antique door knocker, listening for any sidled movements on the other side.
Shading my eyes, I swept my gaze over the shrieking faces of gargoyles, their clawed feet grasping crenellated turrets.
Stepping over the pruned shrubs, the weathered gnomes, I crept to the front window, separated the drooping shutters and peeked through the glass. Cataloguing the wood-panelled lobby, the old, black and white mosaic floor tiles and Edwardian dresser exhibiting an arrangement of mismatched hollow plates, rustic ornaments and miniature jam jars, I banged a fist on the glass.
I skirted the perimeter of the building until I located another window and, awe-inspired, wiped tiny particles of dust from the criss-cross pane to see the enormous corridor, the walls clad in red damask and gilded leaves. It had ornate stained-glass windows, wrought-iron balconies and a frescoed ceiling with a domed skyline, which soared above the imperial staircase.
Assured it was the wrong address, I checked the message on my phone.
It was definitely the location provided by Alfie.
I dialled his number.
"Ma'am," Alfie answered. "Are you lost?"
"Can you see me?" I tried to find his car through the hazy grey fog. "This is a joke, right?"
"Freezing my arse off is hardly humorous, Ma'am."
The man owned a brand-new Bentley, so he had no reason to be cold. "You could always turn the heater on."
