| 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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I checked in for an overnight stay at a three-star bed and breakfast. The kind, generous taxi driver covered the bill and, on my behalf, asked the innkeeper for spare clothes.
Vintage motif patterns papered the four walls. Historic artefacts sat on rustic furniture. Fringed rugs ineffectively covered the slate floor, and allegorical tapestries bedecked the single bed beside the single-hung window, which overlooked the overgrown garden and the old, corrugated iron Anderson shelter.
Between the temperamental central heating and the compromised single-glazed window, I doubt I'll warm up anytime soon. I laid the proprietor's white cotton nightdress over the old-fashioned rocking chair, searched the bathroom cabinet for the first aid kit and used sterile wipes to clean the encrusted blood behind my ear. It hurt to touch, but it's not severe enough for stitches.
I clocked the moss-coloured wall tiles, the sage, mosaic effect floor and mildewed splattered ceiling. If it weren't for the tiny, cast iron roll top bath and unhygienic conditions, I'd be indulging in hot bubbles by now.
Everything could wait until the morning.
I binned the gaudy robe to put on the ankle-length bedgown—the frill tie neck and lace cuffed sleeves akin to garments worn by possessed women in demonic horror movies—and crawled under the duvet for well-needed shut-eye.
My eyes closed.
And opened.
I stared at the paper-peeled wall.
It's no use.
My heart's under attack.
Tears impaired eyesight.
I cried myself to sleep.
***
The innkeeper provided the key to the lost-and-found cupboard: bright pink neon leggings, a too-cool-for-school T-shirt, an acid-washed denim jacket and odd socks.
I looked and felt stupid.
Nonetheless, I thanked the attentive woman for the colourful clothes and the "restful" accommodation, even though squeaking pipes, creaking floorboards, and ghost-like silhouettes hindered relaxation. I spent all night warding off non-existing spectres and imaginary wardrobe inhabitants.
Using the twenty-pound note the taxi driver forced into my hand last night, I booked an Addison Lee and travelled to Pierced & Inked.
My Louboutin heels snipped the black floor tiles as I entered the building's side entrance. Before I knocked on Jace's office door, I stopped to listen to his raised voice alongside Jared's and Shane's enraged undertones, wondering if an unannounced visit was a bad idea.
Jace sensed eavesdropping.
The office door flew open.
My best friend glared accusingly. "Where the fuck have you been?"
