| 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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Brad's prone to inhabit one of the guest rooms more often than not. Rousing from a peaceful night of rest, he swung by the office at the crack of dawn, freshly showered, clean-shaven and besuited for the day, to talk business with me before he ventured to Club 11 to meet Nate and the others.
It's unusual for me to crave companionship; however, due to mind-numbing boredom, I stalled his departure as I was sick of my inner dialogue and looking at four walls. I was itching to go back to work, to hunt down the enemy and stain my hands with Italian blood.
Regrettably, Brad has yet to locate Alberto Moretti nor his loyal servants. He did, however, unearth a seedy dive bar under the proprietorship of Moretti's cousin, Bernardo Russo. He'd paid a visit to the estranged relative and left unsatisfied. According to the head barman, Russo's visiting family in Sicily. He had no knowledge of his boss' flight schedule or if he planned to come home any time soon.
Detective Donny Stevens requested an hour of my time. He delivered stolen evidence from the heist case: mobile phones, random jewellery, firearms and leather wallets. Once I separated my possessions, I boxed the items that once belonged to my men, poured him a neat whiskey and got down to business.
Logan Broderick.
I signed a temporary residence order.
Alexa's elatedness terminated reservations. For her happiness, I can overlook the boy's impermanent presence.
I am not a dart aficionado.
Nonetheless, I purchased a Barrington board and solid gold darts. I screwed the fixtures to the back of the office door, stood by the mahogany desk and alternately threw darts until lack of concentration re-emerged.
I received a phone call from Jemma White, a clinical embryologist who'd read one of numerous emails I'd sent previously. We had an in-depth conversation concerning my wife's condition. Jemma understood our frustration and advised that we attend a standard consultation to discuss infertility treatment. I accepted the first available appointment. Alexa's none the wiser. It's best to withhold possible procedures to avoid anxiousness.
I wandered the Manor with a sense of alienated ennui. As I had nothing better to do with my time, I relocated to the master bedroom's walk-in wardrobe to reorganise suits.
Thanks to my domesticated wife, rearranging was hardly necessary. There wasn't a cinch in the shirts. Leather shoes showcased behind glass units. Manscape products and colognes hoarded shelves in a particular order, and jewellery laid on beds of black velvet.
Opening the vanity table's drawer, I fossicked miscellaneous items when something caught my eye. Forehead creasing in perplexity, I picked up the gold, onyx signet ring and felt a chill slither down my spine.
Raymond Warren's name engraved the stone.
Why does Alexa have my father's ring?
Moreover, why hasn't Alexa brought this to my attention?
