| 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 switched to autopilot. Flashing lights deprived sight, and members of the press roared uncountable questions, slandering my husband, making damaging statements about his reputation.
Raising the clutch bag to conceal my face, I fused to Brad's side as his outstretched arm warded off investigative encroachment.
Tears shaped into unpreventable droplets behind black tinted sunglasses, exuding into rivulets of wretchedness on my cheeks.
Each step toward the Central Criminal Court enervated my psyche for hopefulness, the building's gilded Statue of Justice casting judgment as I feared the prosecution's vanquishment of the defence counsel.
Pessimistic thoughts painted a formidably vivid image of my future, where undying love faded into distant memories and ultimate loneliness greyed the final years of existence. Silently weeping in premature grief, I strode into the baroque style foyer, which very much resembled St Paul's Cathedral with its series of axioms, biblical references, commemorating paintings and domelike ceilings. Rich marble floor tiles gracing footsteps, I removed the glasses from my eyes, slipped them into the bag and joined the debonair men in the middle of the Ancaster stone arches.
Brad Jones.
Vincent Warren.
Josh Fitzpatrick.
Nate Alzaim.
Jace Williams.
From my standpoint, I saw suited men near the wooden benches. I recognised Alfie, of course, and numerous night guards from the Manor, but there were unfamiliar faces, too. People I had never seen before. They were suited and booted, smartly dressed for the hearing, and they seemed to know everyone in attendance. "Who are those people?"
Josh followed my line of vision. "I don't know, actually."
I frowned. "Perhaps Alfie can explain."
Nate scrutinised the two tailored gentlemen closest to courtroom four. "Brad?"
"No idea." Brad, too, watched the men interact intently. "Perhaps they are here for someone else."
Josh's hands rubbed together. "I'll go and have a nose."
While Josh sidled to the sharp-featured duo to tap into their private conversation, I repeatedly checked the main door. "Where is Reginald?"
Brad checked the time on his phone. "It's not safe for him."
Why is it unsafe for Reginald to show his face? I love these guys, but, as of late, they withheld vital information from me. Last night, when I was struggling to sleep, I roamed the Manor's halls and overheard the Suits' confidential discussion in the billiard room. Nate and Josh agreed with Brad's notion of 'the less said, the better, to protect their boss's wife from distress'. I had to stop myself from entering the room and demanding answers. Instead, albeit uncharacteristic, I ebbed away in silence and forced myself to trust the process—to trust them. After all, Liam entrusted his closest men to do right by me. If I started to doubt them, then I doubted my husband.
