| 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 felt a sense of achievement when Dominic laughed or smiled. I have learned so much about him in such a short space of time. He is sociable and loves interaction, face-to-face cuddles and tickle attacks on the tummy. He is also boisterous and adventurous. I had to be conspicuously focussed the second his legs braced for flight. If I left him unattended for a nanosecond, he'd turn the nursery upside down.
He babbled at everything and anything. If I plonked on the floor too quickly or laid down for a short-lived breather, he crawled on top of me and giggled with inconsolable merriment. In his eyes, I was the strangest yet funniest human on the planet.
Dominic is content and soothed by the sound of familiar voices. He's yet to have any interaction with his father, yet he responded whenever the man entered the room, which, sadly, is not often.
Mr Jones avoided fatherly responsibilities at all costs. Sure, the baby was born into wealth. He lived in a luxurious mansion and wore designer labels. He is the heir to unbelievable fortunes and established superiority. But what is money and power without love?
Dominic will not be a baby forever.
He will be a young man someday.
Will he forgive and forget rejection?
I suppose time will tell.
Dominic threw a stuffed animal on the floor and applauded himself. He looked adorable this evening. His hair was messy from bath time, and the bib absorbed excessive dribble. The poor bugger's molar broke through two nights ago, but the pain, even with antiseptic gel, has yet to reduce.
"Well done." I clapped, watching him step over strewn objects like a penguin. "Shall we get dressed now?" Holding up the animal print sleepsuit, I tempted him to come closer. "Come on. You cannot stay in a nappy all night."
He blew raspberries, babbling to himself.
Palms slapping against the chest of drawers, he knocked the photo frame on the floor. Head lowering between his arms, he stared at the picture of his mother with investigatory closeness.
My heartstrings tugged.
Landing on his butt, he pulled the frame between his outstretched legs and whacked the glass.
"No." I crawled to his side, taking the frame before he shattered the glass and hurt himself. "Let's put that somewhere safe."
"Mum-mum-mum." His murmured mantra was capable of enchantment. "Babba-mum."
My heart threatened to burst out of my chest.
Sitting cross-legged in front of him, I exhibited the photo, and his tiny hands latched onto the frame. "Is that your mummy?"
He lost interest in the photo.
Rubbing his tired eyes, he climbed onto my lap.
Lifting him into my arms, I struggled to my feet to place the frame on the shelf. With the sleepsuit thrown over one shoulder, I laid him on the padded changing mat and buttoned him for bed.
