| 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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Emotional discomfort prevented sleep. I wandered the Manor's tenebrous halls in unease, phone in one hand, bottled vodka in the other and launched into a soliloquy. Engrossed by the double doors in the grand foyer, I rooted myself to the bottom of the bifurcated stairs in wait for Liam.
Seconds ticked. Minutes passed. Hours lanced my insides.
Liam never came home.
I called him, sent text messages and left worried voicemails.
When Brad's name lit up my phone screen, I knew something terrible had happened. Blinded by sadness, I forwarded his call and drank vodka until the unendurable twinge in my chest segued into benumbed incredulousness.
I did not, however, predict the infuriated man's arrival fifteen minutes later.
"Moretti double-crossed the syndicate," Brad told me. "The Italian's stole the diamonds and left everyone for dead. I found Liam and Vincent unconscious in the woods and drove them straight to the hospital. You need to get your shit together, Alexa. When Bossman wakes up? He'll be looking for you."
I was incapable of processing anything. If Brad hadn't bound shoes to my feet, dragged me to Liam's underground garage and thrown me into the Tesla, I would still be at home right now, in denial and three sheets to the wind.
The brother's required an emergency blood transfusion.
"AB-Negative," the surgeon informed.
Everyone from the high-ranked Suits to the low-ranked Suits almost fainted on the spot. We were uselessly incapable of helping. We each had common blood types, which meant Liam and Vincent were in peril of their lives unless, by some miracle, somebody—anybody—came forward with a match.
Brad demanded that hospitals within our vicinity transported donations from storage facilities. Nate made telephone call after telephone call to find possible donors. I knew I wasn't a match but pleaded with the surgeons to test my blood regardless.
I sank down the wall and searched for my mother's disembodied voice. It has been too long since I needed her reassurance and comfort. I have outlived more than most do in a lifetime, but I would never survive losing Liam. He is forever. Always. Even considering longevity without him ripped my heart into shreds.
Pain suffocated my chest, a familiar discomfort I knew so well. When a panic attack lurked, I excused myself from the commotion in the emergency unit, hunted down the nearest toilet facilities and held onto the basin for dear life.
Breathing slowly, in and out, I shut my eyes and inwardly talked myself through calming techniques. I had to be strong. I had to prepare, mentally and emotionally, to tackle whatever knocked on my door.
Splashing cold water over my face, I exhaled through intervals of chest tightness, through the high-pitched shrill in my ears and the deep, pessimistic voice inside my head screaming different permutations of what's expected of me.
