| 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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We journeyed for twenty minutes to Heathrow's Terminal Four and boarded the sleek-black private jet, the same personalised wings used to fly Laurent's family from Albania to London. Fear of the unknown became too overwhelming. I had never been on a plane before, and like every other senseless person who has the compulsive need to use Google and over analyse everything, I researched aviation accidents and incidents online and uncovered a distressing list of mysterious aircraft disappearances.
I almost passed out.
Liam lacked patience for his overemotional madwoman and her querulousness, so he left me unattended—after shackling me to the crème leather recliner, I must add—to sit with unspecifiable Suits. Inwardly, I cried and threatened to kill my new husband for insensitiveness, but on the surface, I concealed emotions and behaved accordingly.
Whilst Liam ingested cognac and smoked cigars with his low-ranking men, I clicked down a Junoesque stewardess and ordered an inexhaustible supply of vodka. By the time the pilot took off, I was too pie-eyed to care if the Bermuda Triangle swallowed our plane.
Presently, I stand on the asphalt of Victoria-Seychelles international airport. I overheard a member of the cabin crew mention Mahé, but honestly, at this point in our tiresome travels, I had an indifferent attitude towards our surprise honeymoon destination.
It's swelteringly hot. I lost the jacket, knotted my hair atop my head and put a hand to my eyes to shield the sun. Liam, the lucky bastard, wore Cartier aviators and looked oddly calm and composed in a suit. "Do you not feel the heat?" I asked, and a kiss on my cheek was his response. "It's boiling."
Liam's men hoisted their suitcases into the boot of hired transport. Assuming the men will drive us to a nearby hotel, I towed my case to the car.
"No." Liam's hand fell to my lower back. "They will stay in Mahé—safety precaution."
"Oh?" I watched them duck into the vehicle. "I thought..." His men would stay in our hotel. I was unperturbed by their ever-present surveillance as twenty-four-hour security was for our protection, albeit overbearing at times, but I didn't mind them staying with us. "Well, where's our car? Are you driving?"
He jerked his chin. "Behind you."
I glimpsed over my shoulder. "Where?" There wasn't a car in sight. "Shit, I think I drank too much."
"Mr Warren." In casual jeans and a white polo shirt, the man, another unidentifiable person, shook Liam's hand. "Are you ready?"
"Have your co-pilot load our cases," Liam ordered as our fingers weaved together. "Come."
"Co-pilot?" My heels alternately clinked along the runway. "Liam, please don't tell me that I have to board another plane. I almost died on the first flight." It's only then I discern the pending helicopter. "Oh, you can piss off—I will not get on that."
