| 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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Pain and confusion clouded sensibility. I am mentally susceptible to poor decision making and misguidance. I drive one-handed down congested roads, through volumes of traffic and past indistinct people. At the red traffic light, I eased onto the brake and dropped into neutral to prevent stalling.
Breathing exhausted my lungs. I held the steering wheel with clammy hands and watched the sweat drip from my head onto my clenched fists. Leaning across the centre console, opening the glove compartment, I fossicked through miscellaneous belongings in search of drugs. I might own the syndicate vehicles, but I am unknowledgeable of the drivers and their stockpiled possessions.
Coming out empty-handed, I left the latch open in exasperation and sank back in the discomforting leather chair. Senses on high alert, I swallowed bitter-tasting bile and glossed over debilitating tremors, the giddiness in my stomach and the light-headed dizziness signifying fatigue.
A car horn blared somewhere.
Switching into first gear, I eased my barefoot onto the accelerator and cruised forward—another horn shrieked, which jolted me into staggering alertness. I slammed on the brake, unhesitant yet disorientated, latterly perceiving onrushing vehicles departing the right junction.
Grasping the passenger seat's headrest, I looked over my shoulder and reversed into position before someone crashed into the bumper. I would be entirely blameworthy. However, in my current state, I'd shoot a motherfucker for damaging these wheels.
The traffic light signalled green.
My left eye twitched.
Back into first gear, I go, vigilantly scouring the intersections as I drive ahead. Not trusting my driving abilities, I swerved into the first empty space between two parked vehicles opposite the chain of department stores and switched off the engine.
I had to make a phone call.
Where's my phone?
What's the time?
Commuters packed the pavements and scuttled to the London Underground, but businesses remained unopened, bar the breakfast truck outside the tube station. I should eat. If I were sensible, I'd pack in a few breakfast rolls.
Insatiable revenge outweighed famishment, though.
I stepped out of the Bentley, popped open the boot and overturned the guard's holdalls: gym clothes, spare suits, protein bars, thriller novels and bundled cash.
Helping myself to the money, I locked the car and walked barefoot along the pavement.
The mod boutique beckoned interest. Testing the locked door handle, I peered through to locate the owner and fist-bashed the window. When nobody reared their head, I knocked harder, imperiously demanding service.
Short, curvaceous and enthusiastically chipper, the Rubenesque brunette unlocked the shop door and explained, although she is not open to the public for another forty-five minutes, I am welcome to come inside and look around.
