DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

"The syndicate is the most dangerous criminal organisation in the history of Albion." He spoke with a stern expression. "I will leave you to do the maths."

I suppose there is a bit of truth in JonBonVoyage's online review.

"JonFuckingBon." Driving one-handedly down Club 11's private alleyway, Brad slammed on the brake near the fire exit door, switched the gear to reverse mode and backed up between two stationary vehicles. "Petulant teenager. I bet he never made it past the main doors." Turning off the engine, he eased back in the driver's chair, with thighs parted in relaxation. "And now I can breathe."

I studied the sharp line of the man's jaw, defined cheekbones and sensuous lips. "You can be very irascible."

"Only when twats like JonFuckingBon piss me off." Relighting the end of a blunt with an incandescent Clipper flame, he inhaled a long, deep drag and respired precise smoke halos. "You good?"

I nodded.

"I am Hank Marvin. I could eat a scabby horse, a blue whale and a banquet." His phone jittered on the dashboard. He slid me a concerned look. "It's probably Alexa."

My smile faded. "You do not answer to me, Big Guy."

"It's called reassurance."

"Since when did I need to be reassured?"

An intense pause.

"You know, I lose all sense of who I truly am when I am with you." It was an insult, not a compliment. "I try to be a good guy, show you that I can be kind, thoughtful and sensitive, when, in reality, I have only ever prioritised myself. A woman's feelings have never mattered." Steely eyes looked back at me. "Your feelings do not matter."

He was trying to get a rise out of me, to prompt an angry, jealous reaction, but I chose not to bite. It's clear that he is upset.

"Hey, if another bird is blowing up my phone with a plethora of nude pictures, what do I care? It's not like you are my woman or all that malarkey." He reached for the phone. "Your heart is irrelevant."

Not bothering to reply, I picked my thumbnail. I had somehow offended him—a skill I have practised a lot today—and he is on the defence. If I look at him incorrectly, he will seize the opportunity to argue. He is the last person I wanted to hurt.

"What?" he asked, and I peeked to the side, anticipating a bombardment of unkind words, but he was talking to himself. "No. What the fuck?" Clicking out of the email, he dialled someone's number and placed the phone to his ear. "Where are you? I have called ten times!"

He called once. The person answered straight away.

"Did you receive an email from Reginald?" He paused to listen to the other person speak. Nate, I think. "Governor Dane Russell is dead. I shit you not. The bastard snuffed it."

Nate is speaking now, not that I can hear a word he is saying.

"A fisherman made the call last night." Another long delay to provide room for a two-way conversation. "Birchmere Lake. The guy's line got caught on a heavy object. He swam down to investigate." His hand drummed on the steering wheel anxiously. "No, it's another hobby or some shit. I don't fucking know. He collects lost valuables. Who cares? That's not the point."

Parched, I swigged at the water bottle.

"Got more than he bargained for." Brad gripped the phone tightly. "He found the car, panicked and resurfaced. No, he called the police the second he got out of the lake. The Met arrived with divers and recovered the vehicle." Nate is asking a lot of questions. "The body was identified. It's Russell. A suspected suicide."