| 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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Carl unclasped the black suitcase on the table and exhibited six patternless ties. I selected silk grey to compliment the black two-piece and looped it around my neck, weaving an Eldredge knot. Fixing canary diamond cufflinks to the shirt's sleeves, I sprayed cologne, returned essentials to the attentive barrister and stood by the window to watch rain lash the streets of London. It is said that bad weather looked worse through the window, and from my standpoint, it does not get any more depressing than this. Thick, nimbostratus clouds loomed dangerously overhead, resulting in torrential rain and termed gusts of wind, which drenched the city's pedestrians and stationed journalists.
"The level of farcicality, in this case, is astronomical." Carl, robed for the occasion, adjusted the off-white wig on his head. "I am telling you, Warren. Whatever the outcome, once I have finished, the Judge will summon the witnesses to court to face the consequences. It is only what those perjurers deserve for falsifying an affirmation of trustworthiness." He went quiet for a beat. "Why so glum?"
Rain splattered the windowpane. "I miss my wife."
Her inedible cooking in the kitchen.
Admittedly, the store purchased convenient meals compensated for the gastronomical privations, but her culinary endeavours merited recognition.
Her inharmonious singing in the shower.
It is an over-generalisation, but she breaks morphological rules when inventing words under the warm spray. The woman cannot sing to save her life. Yet, I listened from the comfort of our king-sized bed with a smile on my face.
Her discarded shoes, strewn on the bedroom floor.
You'd never believe designer shoes were so paramount to the woman. Nightly, she kicked them aside, left them on the carpet, and then walked past them every morning to step into a new pair. I spend too many hours returning said shoes to their rightful place in the walk-in wardrobe.
Not that she's ever noticed.
Her beautiful face in the morning.
I awaken before sunrise to shower and change for work, and she sleeps through unflinchingly. Before I even contemplate leaving the bed, I wrap an arm around her, thanking whatever force brought us together, and marvel at her flawless features, her soft, kissable lips, her lustrous dark hair, her heart-shaped face and the silver scar beneath her eye. In the eye of the beholder, she is perfection, and she is all mine.
Her contagious laughter at the most inappropriate moments.
Often, I stared at her in silent wonderment, pondering how she managed to enter difficult situations unknowingly and calm hostilities with her smile alone.
Her whispered endearments when we made love.
My eyes shut as I imagined her in front of me. My wife is tall, especially in heels, and when I closed in, caged her between me and the wall, her neck craned just slightly to place a delicate kiss on my lips. Her hands, when they felt me, smoothed along my shoulders and arms, the muscles in my body tightened to her silent calling. She had the power, with her voice and her touch, to bring me to my knees. I was weak for her in the worst possible way, but I loved her far too much to challenge the weakness she instilled. If anything, I surrendered to the inevitable many years ago, even before I allowed myself to acknowledge it, to acknowledge her.
