| 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...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
Tool's diamond-shaped chin rested in the palm of his left hand as his downturned eyes monitored the ins and outs of my arse. His contemptuous scowl set above high cheekbones and sharp, cupid bow lips. His relaxed body language was forced and insincere. His shoulder leaning on the brick wall, he folded his arms and whistled tuneful songs, one being the infamous "Twisted Nerve" by Bernard Herrmann.
He dithered at the end of the alleyway.
I collected litter by the bright yellow communal skip.
His head tilted.
My frown darkened.
If this is a game of cat and mouse, he better prepare for rodenticide.
I eat people like him for breakfast.
"New tracksuit?" His deep voice thundered from afar. "And, where do you buy the headbands? Or are they on loan from your little sister?"
Tool is not worth my time or energy.
"Perhaps you take them from your mother." he mused, and the extended gripper almost slipped from my hand. "Do you wear her clothes, too?"
Think clearly, Jones.
They'll only send another tool to replace him if you kill him.
"Did I touch a nerve?" he asked, having noticed my uneasiness. "I have a degree in psychology. You could always entrust the hand that serves you."
"I would never reveal the darkest side of myself to a man like you," I said as his footsteps closed in. "So, shove your psychoanalytic bullshit where the sun doesn't shine."
Tool's leather shoes came into my line of sight. Yet, I kept my head down to stab empty packets on the ground. I may or may not ram the gripper's metal pin in his eye if I look up.
The man read my file, so he thinks he got me all figured out. But he doesn't know me. He has a warped opinion of me. If he realised just how villainous I could be, he'd think twice about pestering me. He'd sure as hell avoid eye contact, wire his damn mouth shut and stay on my blissful side because I can be dangerously impulsive when provoked.
I have skinned men, extracted teeth, broken bones, dismembered, disembowelled, decapitated and castrated for less.
There are no limits to my artistic abilities. I will quite happily use his blood to paint these very walls.
His impatient foot-tapping echoed throughout. "Is it true?"
Sweat dripping down my temples, I knotted the black sack and hurled it next to the other filled bags for discarding. "Is what true?"
"Are you a closet queen?" He revelled in the pleasure of tormenting me. "A female impersonator? Crossdresser?"
"Why do you synonymise?" Although the image of him hanging from the lamppost excited me, I tapered down wayward thoughts and shouldered past him to unravel another sack. "I understood the question the first time."
