| 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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Vincent's reggae club was empty, except for the older man togged up in leather behind the bar. I recognised him from previous nights out. While living at Heather's bed-and-breakfast with Jace, I often came here, and the moody, unapproachable barman always slaved away behind the draught pumps. He paused with a dishcloth on the wooden countertop when our eyes connected. And, judging by his air of condescension, he remembered our infrequent yet strained encounters, too.
I gulped. "Where is everyone?"
"Vincent is upstairs." He dumped beer mats in the plastic bowl of soapy water. "I can't talk for anyone else."
Alfie removed the faux fur coat from my body and folded it over his arm. "Would you like me to order you a drink, Ma'am?"
"No, thank you." I almost told him to treat himself to a gin, but his bionic hand kindled traumatic emotions when my husband docked his actual fingers as an unmerciful punishment. "You should order some orange juice and take a seat."
His head dipped.
Ignoring the barman's evident repugnance, I pushed through the private door at the back of the room and ascended the narrow stairs to the bar's first floor, where many locked doors lined the dimly lit hall. Through one ajar door, I went. It opened into a large, cluttered room. Sealed cardboard boxes littered the wooden floor. Dirty dishes are mounted in the sink. The moon's light shone through the uncurtained window, where a tall silhouette stood. When I stepped forward, Vincent's head turned slightly. "It's me," I said before he instinctively reached for his gun. "Brad texted. He told me to come here."
Vincent's stare returned to the window to oversee the streets below.
"Do you live here?" My fingertips collected besprinkled soot on the wooden dresser, the cotton dust sheet hanging precariously over the edge. "It's unaccommodating."
After a long pause, he respired marijuana-infused smoke. "No, I reside elsewhere, Angel."
I rubbed goosebumps from my arms. "Where is the light switch?"
"No bulbs." He put his back to the window so that he could look at me from across the room. "I prefer the dark."
"Deity of darkness," I said playfully, but his graveness remained. "It's how I saw you, the night you chased me through the alley."
"Correction. I cornered a blue-eyed blonde." His upper lip curled. "Where is the little vixen these days?"
I stopped in front of him. "You tell me, Smith."
He gave me an insipid smile. "You don't look like a 'Victoria.'"
"And you don't look like a 'John.'"
Scratching his shadowed jaw, he proffered the half-smoke blunt. "Can I tempt you?"
I declined politely.
We both turned to the window to watch the black Bentley vehicles park along the curbside. Alfie jogged across the street to converse with Brad. Both men glanced at the window and, although they could not see anything, I stepped back. "Sometimes, I feel too exposed to the eyes of the syndicate. I love them, especially the elite. But there is no privacy. I am constantly in the spotlight."
