| 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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Floral tributes poured onto the road. Teddy bears, old photographs and bereavement notes adhered to the metal fence, and the gleaming flames of pillar candles bordered Inseparable Youths' perimeters. In honour of Samuel's memory, the entire community gathered to pay their respects, to offer sincere commiseration to his mother, Tammy, and to write sympathy letters in the book of condolence.
Nursing a steaming mug of coffee, I watched grief-stricken teenagers in quiet imperturbability. With consistent industriousness, they door-knocked nearby homes to collect donations, prepared hot beverages for visitors and assisted Tricia and Dave in the kitchen, where our tireless cooks rustled up warm meals and baked boxed goods.
"Tre?" I called, and the downcast boy came to a stop. He couldn't look at me. His puffy, blood-shot eyes glued to the floor. Dry, chapped lips slightly parted, he inhaled hitched breaths and thumbed a stray tear from his cheek. "I know how hard this must be for you. You and Samuel were more than friends. You were like brothers."
He mustered an almost imperceptible nod.
My heart ached for him. "How much have you raised so far?"
"I don't know," he croaked, shaking coins in the handheld donation box. "Thirty quid, I think."
"Mrs Ashworth is too distraught to care about funeral costs right now." Unzipping my handbag, I took out the folded cheque from Liam and tucked it into the plastic slit. "But in a few days, when she sits down and sees how hard you guys worked to help, she'll be grateful."
He followed suit, dropping pound coins inside. "How much did you give?"
Liam contributed twenty thousand. "Two hundred."
"Wow," he said appreciatively. "Thank you, Mrs Warren."
I offered Tre a subdued smile, squeezed his shoulder and left him to converse with friends. Inside the youth centre, I alternated between occupied tables of disconsolateness, kindly asking everyone to sign the condolence book for Mrs Ashworth. It would be two hours of uninterrupted sympathy messages, inside jokes and scrawled signatures before I slipped into Matthew's office for a breather. He sat on the timeworn leather chair, elbows to the desk, fingers clasped in front of his grim face. "How's it going out there?" he asked, despondently staring into his half-filled mug. "The council advised us to continue as normal but opening to the public so soon after Samuel's death feels disrespectful."
I understand Matt's predicament. "I agree with the council."
"Do you?" He rubbed his tired eyes. "What about Mrs Ashworth?"
"A sense of normality is exactly what the teens need." I placed the signed book on his desk. "I am sure Tammy will understand."
Matthew stood to peer through the Venetian blinds, monitoring the distraught assemblage. Hands in his trouser pockets, he rocked back on the heels of his heavy-duty boots. His countenance was that of a vacant depressive, the growth of stubble dusting his jaw, somewhat diverting the attention from the dark circles around his eyes.
