DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER FORTY

"This is a quarter of a million-pound car. A justifiable purchase for any Bentley connoisseur." Still, in true Brad Jones fashion, I belied respect and adoration in exchange for feigned yet professional antagonism since one thing I have learnt about Alexa Warren over the years is that she is most responsive to toxic circumstances. It's like she gets off on it. Thus Warren is the perfect man. His level of masculine toxicity is unrivalled as per his wife's expectations. "Its rarity, provenance and equipment mean a replacement is virtually impossible. Warren loves you. But luxury cars are the man's valued possessions." Her fingers slowly withdrew from the power window switch. "He shot a negligent motorcyclist for clipping the wing mirror once."

Alexa smiled for the first time in over an hour, albeit flushed and reduced to sweat. "I am untouchable." Her toes curled around the edge of the leather seat between my slackened thighs when an evident contraction slammed into her writhing body. "Even at the hands of my killer husband."

Josh, the designated, sickly pale driver, who has spent the better part of this joyful car journey in silent contemplation, snorted amusedly. "I hear no lies."

"Her restored confidence is staggering." Vincent, the shotgun passenger, used a sharp switchblade to peel a waxy green apple. "Although, as strange as it may seem, I cannot argue with facts. I could say, with absolute certitude, that my brother would set every vehicle he owned on fire if his precious wife demanded it. The Mulsanne included."

Vincent is not wrong. Alexa has always been Warren's greatest weakness. He does not think like a rational, level-headed man when she is around. He throws the role of criminal codes out the window if she so much as looks at him. If those eyelashes flutter, he goes down on one knee as a sign of respect and promises to deliver the bloodied hearts of her most hated enemies on a gold platter. Gruesome poetics, that's if you are into the whole dark romance malarkey.

Nevertheless, I will not endure another five seconds of this woman's bizarre behaviour. If she wants to dismantle syndicate vehicles, she can do it on her own time and when I am not in attendance.

"Thank you, Vincent." In a dramatic performance, Alexa changed position on the seat, her knees supporting the weight of her body, which shook like a leaf, as she grasped the headrest between rigid fingers. I saw way too much backside for it to be deemed acceptable or appropriate. "At least I can rely on you to see the bigger picture."

There is no "bigger picture" to be seen. Alexa is fucking bonkers on a normal day, never mind when ensnared in pain-induced delirium. At this point, I don't even think she even knows what the fuck she's saying.

Alexa's head fell forward, exposing the nape of her sweat-soaked neck. The white gold chain, a gift from her husband, snaked into erogenous areas. "Oh, God. I can't take much more." Her fingernails scratched the seat's leather finish. "I need a tranquilliser. Just put me to sleep. I don't care how you do it."

"Alexa." Jace, the voice of reasoning on her left, rubbed the lowest part of her back. "Breathing exercises are effective modalities for labour pain." His jaw muscle was firm with tension. "Breathe through your nose and sigh through your mouth. In and out. Nice and slow."

Alexa's face was glued to the headrest, the perspiration on her pink-bespattered forehead trickling down her temples.

"Keep breathing," Jace encouraged, and the repetitiveness of her rough, raspy breath activated. "Good girl."

"Don't say that to me," she choked up with inconsolable broken-heartedness, and he shot me a glance of perplexity that besought answers I refused to provide. "Why has the car stopped? I should be at the hospital by now. Can someone tell me what the Hell is going on? I—Oh, God." Another contraction sent her body crashing and falling into the seat. "Brad, please. I need to find a restroom. I can feel something..." Her hand disappeared between her trembling legs, where blood intermixed with amniotic fluid left stomach-churning streaks on her skin. "Can someone fucking do something?!"