| 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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"Initially, I thought, it's no wonder Samuel's unmanageably disobedient. His mother's not a good role model or leading by example." Spacing twelve freshly baked vanilla cupcakes onto the kitchen's marble island, I spooned white icing into a piping bag and spiralled frosting. "I pre-judged. Mrs Ashworth loves her son," I swapped the white icing for green, "but she's exhausted. Haggard. You can see she hasn't had an easy life."
Liam's the cynosure of tonight's bake-off. He's unhelpful in the decorating department but companionably at my side, sampling flavoursome buttercream. "I prefer the chocolate," he praised, sucking decedent caramel cream cheese off his thumb. "Not a fan of this one."
"I like caramel." Spooning a dollop to my mouth, I savoured the taste for an honest review and frowned. "Is it supposed to be that salty?"
His lip twitched. "No."
"Oh." Setting the caramel glaze aside, I picked up the yellow piping bag and squeezed small flowers onto the iced-grass cupcake. "Well, I don't need mud, anyway." It's hard to concentrate when the man's scrutinising every mishap. Freshly showered with imposing muscularity, he's bare-chested and wears low-hanging slouch pants, a photo-worthy specimen. "You need to put a T-shirt on."
Folding his strapping arms, Liam put his back to the counter. "Why?" He did not attempt to conceal his vainglorious smirk. "Do you not approve?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "It's distracting."
My aroused awkwardness amused him. "I would love to say the same about you." His fingers effaced something from my cheek. "The facial flour shelves approbation, though."
"Trendsetting means nothing in the kitchen." I laughed, spraying edible gold glitter across decorated creations. "If you exclude the heels, of course."
"Of course," he imitated in a hollow whisper, inspecting the black six-inch Stuart Weitzman shoes on my feet. "So, this Samuel kid. You think he's one of our errand confrères?"
"Would you recognise him if I showed you a picture?"
"Doubtful. Nate manages street underlings. I merely authorise transactions." When I proffered the phone to show him an image of Samuel on the Inseperable Youths' website, he zoomed in on the screen. "Even if I knew of this boy, what do you require? Preferential treatment? Safeguarding?"
If Samuel's embroiled in the syndicate, even if his involvement is that of a small-scale, I want Liam to consent to his instant dismissal. Samuel's better than opioid addiction and the life of organised crime. "Give him the boot. Eliminate his drug supply."
Liam set my phone on the counter. "I will inquire," he said, texting someone on his phone. "I can't promise anything." He eyed me then, quiet and reflective. "I assigned you a new bodyguard. Alfie. He's part of Club 11's elite security team. I trust him to do right by you."
Yes, I remember standoffish Alfie. He usually guards the door to Liam's office. "Why do you always allocate temperamentally disinclined Suits? I am a talkative person. If you insist on forced companions, the least you can do is give me somebody conversational." A thought occurred. "Can I keep Josh?" Josh is the brother I never had. We are like two peas in a pod, unrelated twins separated from birth, a bunch of diabolical busy-bodies who understand one another. Life's fun when he's around, and he's the most entertaining driving instructor. "Please?"
