DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER TWO

I went through many a Tudor door and trudged across just as many medieval rugs to locate the first bedroom. I was surprised to see the room unlocked and unguarded, but with no sign of movement or inhabitants, accessibility made sense.

It was the first room without a boarded-up window. I used a random pillow case to efface the layer of dust on the glass pane to see the stationed helicopters in the distance.

Unmuting the earpiece, I drowned out the hushed confabulation of Warren's men and spoke directly to Eli, "What is the problem?"

"There are two men on the roof, guarding the helipad." His honeyed voice segued into the low whisper of tonight's wind. "I have secured a vehicle-borne to every car within the vicinity, but I will not detonate hastily, as the explosion will alert the enemy. Perhaps I can throw the men off the building before setting the helicopters alight. The shortest male looks very fragile."

A round of canned laughter pierced my ear, the men amused by Eli's witticism. Only Eli is not joking. One thing I have learnt about the Ukrainian is that he prides himself on impulsivity and ruthlessness. He is cut-throat, straight to the point, and if he makes a threat, even in the most humoured voice, he delivers without an ounce of remorse or regret. Hence, the man is an asset to the syndicate. I am in no rush to lose him.

"Hang tight for a while longer." A shelf full of round-eyed porcelain dolls, bedecked in elaborate frocks and stained ribbons, watched my every move. "Thoughts on the creepy old house?"

"I like it," Josh said predictably, and I grunted a jargon of disapproval. "It's big, spacious and private. I could live here."

"I suppose it's better than The Addams House," I bantered, not that Josh cared to retort. He could not argue the truth. He did, after all, live in a gothic building guarded by concrete gargoyles that posed more of a threat than half of Warren's men. "Isn't that right, Sailor?"

"There is nothing wrong with my house." Josh only convinced himself, as everyone else knew, that Nanna Fitzpatrick's dilapidated abode should have been condemned decades ago. "Not to be a buzzkill, but I have found nothing."

"The building is empty," Nate said as I retreated to the darkened corners of the hallway. "Where are you?"

Nobody replied to Nate because the question was obviously for me. "Tower block," I confirmed, retracing my footsteps. "Perhaps everyone went underground."

I returned to the grand foyer, the gilt-bronze chandeliers and stable metal candle holders webbed in gossamer.

Hearing indistinct conversations, I pondered whether some of the men had lost their bearings when three unidentifiable geezers, burly and unshaven, in casual clothes, denim jeans and muddy boots, appeared in the sitting room by the ancient grandfather clock.

Falling into the shadows, back pressed to the wall, I muted the earpiece, slipped the knuckle dusters over my fingers and forced the switchblade open. I was not expecting company, having got too comfortable in the empty halls.

Still, I marked each male—two of whom possessed gun holsters, cigars and rum, the third too preoccupied with a phone to be present or talkative—and mentally strategised to unarm and kill without coming out of the situation scarred or wounded. I swear, if one of those tools put so much as a graze on my beautiful face, on my recently exfoliated skin, I will throw all three of them out of the bastard window.

I waited with bated breath. It was impossible to predict the outcome. Three against one without the use of a firearm is a complicated task, but blowing our cover too early is not up for debate. I had captives to consider.

The guy on his phone excused himself to take an incoming call, which provided the utmost convenience—dealing with the first problem allowed time for the others.