| BOOK FIVE | 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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Nate is a callous drill sergeant. If the non-commissioned martinet demands any more enthusiasm from bruised, weary soldiers, he'll be left with empty barracks before the week is out. He dragged exhausted men out of the comfort of their beds at three o'clock this morning, the devil's hour, for a well-intentioned segmented run in the mesic woodland area behind the historical compound.
The shivering cold of dawn crept among us when the enervated men returned, the clothes on their overworked bodies streaked in sweat, the trainers on their feet caked in dirt. Thirty-five prospects hit the deck, collapsed in short-winded, boneless stacks, some vomiting through violent episodes of dizziness, but only twenty-nine got back up for technique and progression.
According to ex-military colonel Eddie (he's managed the barracks since the very beginning), the old, hard-bitten grump who lived separately from the enlisted, the British army used the site to train during the second world war. The abandoned, war-damaged area soon fuelled investors online. It was later auctioned, however, to none other than Liam Warren.
It's been in the boss's possession ever since.
In earlier years, Bossman had a wise head on young shoulders. He was new to the game, a novice compared to other business magnates, but inexperience never stopped him from achieving.
Warren was like a dog with a bone when something caught his interest. He saw potential in the ravaged barracks. He stood in the middle of the deserted, debris strewed courtyard one night and expressed so much passion for what I perceived as an unnerving burial ground. The visionary, however, closed his eyes and mentally painted blank canvases to actualise dreams.
"I can hire contractors." His dark, windswept hair irritated his brow. "We can restore the barracks, but the dilapidated outbuilding has to go."
The destroyed expanse of unrestored buildings was unappealing. Honestly, I would never waste money on such dreadfulness. And what of the ghosts of foot soldiers? Are they here? Is the place haunted? Do those trapped souls terrorise the halls at night? Yeah, no thanks. Paranormal activity is not my idea of a good time. I'd rather sleep on the streets for the rest of my life.
"Yeah," I agreed, albeit sceptical. "If you say so."
"If I say so," he said whispery, the Romanesque bell tower trapped in his piercing stare. "You cannot see it."
I tried damn hard to envision greatness, but I clearly wasn't drunk enough, unlike some people. "Historians will love the place."
"I never bought it for historians." He swigged Macallan from the bottle. "It's for my men."
My protrusive eyes skirted over the windowless buildings. "There isn't enough money on earth to put me in one of those flea-ridden bunk beds."
He laughed, low and raspy. "Your perception is utterly presumptuous. During which part of our conversation did I offer you any money?"
