| BOOK FIVE | 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 hate tweed suits. It's the fuzziness, the coarse textures and measureless layers of thick wool. I don't care if it's high-quality, versatile and durable. You will not see me dead in chambray hideousness. There is something extremely offensive about the hand-woven fabrics used to produce such monstrous garbage.
Men think it's voguish if you throw in a volumised flat cap and a gold-plated waistcoat chain. It's not fashionable. It's unfashionable. We are not the remodelled aristocracies of the eighteenth century. We live in London, the iconic British fashion capital. If Oxford Street does not get the taste buds flowing, take a trip to the concentrated area of sophistication and splash out in Bond Street, the heart of luxuriousness, a fashionista's haven.
I just bought Valentino Garavani leather shoes and three signature belts, hence why I was late for the meeting this morning. I guess I am what you'd call fashion-conscious. Designer labels convey wealth, whereas bargain-store clothes screamed cheap and cheerless.
Life was not always about great panache and unrivalled style. There were depressing times where hand-me-down clothes lasted twenty-four months and inexpensive jewellery tarnished within weeks of purchase. I paid extortionate money to rent insalubrious backstreet housing where light fixtures dangled precariously from ceilings and indoor mould stubbornly surfaced through freshly painted walls.
What's the phrase? One step forward and two steps back.
As soon as I fixed one problem, I encountered another one.
Let's carpet throughout. It sounded like a good idea to cover the hardwood floors, make the place feel homier, but then Stuart Little decided to pay a visit and chew indiscriminately through the underlay for its ever-present nest of furless vermin to venture out from next door.
Let's overturn the back garden. I could imagine Tiffany, the fucking worst mistake of my life, sunbathing on loungers, sipping her favourite cocktails. Three days, I shovelled soil into the wheelbarrow. I caught the best sun-tan. I also discovered an infestation of lawn grubs.
I shivered at the memory.
Christ, I had six hot showers that evening. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt one of those slimy, wiggling grubs on my skin.
I'd never, not even for the right price, cultivate gardens again.
The above mentioned is not even half of the problems I experienced. Life was hard. Times were tough. I often sat in the pub after work, wondering when I'd catch a break or, I don't know, win the lottery.
Hell, I worked long, hard and industriously to save money, from serving pints at Jerry's Bar to assembling furniture in factories and slaving away at unsociable hours in industrial plants. I was assiduous in every job just for a pittance because I could see the bigger picture, a bright future, the light at the end of the tunnel.
Three grand. That's all I had managed to save in four years because, well, life and bills. That shoebox stashed with rolled-up cash under the bed was my ticket out of misery. I counted those notes every Saturday night whilst imbibing inexpensive beer.
