| 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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I crashed through the steel door to Club 11's underground chambers. Life's unexpectancies, such as premature death, can happen to anyone, especially hard, complacent opportunists, who will do whatever it takes, even if it puts them in fatal situations or is damaging to others, to get what they want. Harold Stone, the arrant coward, might sail-through time on earth, bullying weak individuals with undue coercion or abusing power and strength to beat timid women, but like any other incompetent, risible tormentor, when the clock of flourishment stops ticking, he is not immune to the misfortune ensued from one's deplorable actions.
Vincent is standing by the unlocked door of Harold's cage. And Harold looked far too comfortable for a man who warranted excruciating gruesomeness.
"Jones..." Vincent's predator-like aloofness fractured when discerning the extreme, uncontrolled indignation aflame in my alert eyes. His relaxed posture straightened. He knew I was out for blood. "No, Brad. Not yet—"
Lashing out in blind rage, I shoved him away from the cage and, unperturbed by his vigorous objections, yanked Harold off the mattress by the ankles.
"Jones, wait—" The back of Harold's head hit the floor on impact, the black-framed glasses crushing beneath his weight as his body thrashed and his arms flailed wildly. "Please, I will talk!"
Dragging him out of the enclosure, I snatched the leather shoes on his feet, the twist of his gangly legs clipping me in the shins, and, one by one, lunged them at his face, knocking the former smile right off his face.
Harold's arms shot up to evade blows to the face. "Brad!"
Blocking his fluctuating arms, capturing his raised, clenched fist in my hand, I dropped a knee to his chest and, with every ounce of strength I possessed, bent his outstretched arm across my thigh and snapped. Bones crunched and cracked. His prolonged, high-pitched scream reverberated around the dank room as his broken arm sagged on the cold, wet floor.
He is not allowed to wallow in pain or choke on vomit.
I let him roll onto his side, let him think he had earned a breather, then brought my leg back and kicked him under the chin with implacable anger, hatred and bitterness. I did not bode well to an injured pride and shattered ego.
This is not syndicate business.
This is personal.
I had no say or input in Harold's and Chloe's previous decisions. They decided I was an unfit father while the boy was still in her utero. They did not give me options or a choice. No, I was a sperm donor, nothing more, nothing less.
"Jones." Vincent's snarled warning fell on deaf ears. "We need him to talk."
With Harold's hair fisted in one hand, I drew an arm back and jawed him, blow after blow, strike after strike, punch after punch. Each merciless slam of the fist knocked the man's face to the side with punishing velocity. His head wobbled like a ragdoll. A defaced ragdoll. An unrecognisable piece of shit.
