I chucked the phone on my desk, rubbed the sweat from my brow and grappled my hair by the root. Electronic dance music thundered from the main room, juddering the mini bar's whiskey collection, which successfully irritated every bone in my body.
If I said to terminate Cherry's employment, would you?
I turned on the surveillance and watched Cherry flirt with risqué customers in the Diamond Suite.
Why do you take drugs?
Heaped cocaine dirtied the desk.
What do you need?
Alexa. Always.
When I'm ready to see you, I will get in touch.
Goodbye, Liam.
No, it's never goodbye for us.
I lit a cigarette, and smoke rolled down my throat.
"Fuck," I spat, swiping the cocaine across the room.
Ice-cold fury flooded my veins. I rounded the desk, dragging faint white footsteps across the hardwood floor, and exited the office simultaneously as our red-haired working girl appeared. "Mr Warren." Cherry brandished wads of hard-earned cash. "I made the rounds—"
My palm struck her cheek.
Cherry legs collapsed beneath her weight, and she nose-dived to the floor. Stunned into stark horror, she scuttled until her back hit the wall. "Sir..." Round, wet eyes peered up at me. "What did I do?"
Stepping over strewn fifty-pound notes, I crouched to place us eye-level. "Have you forgotten your place?"
Cherry's lips quivered. "I..." Her mouth opened and closed. "If this is about—" My hand snatched her throat. "Sir, please." Thrashing against the invasion, she clawed my wrist as I heaved her body up the wall. "It hurts..."
"You were nothing but a junkie fucking bitch when I took you off the streets," I snarled, my fingers crushing her neck, restricting her air supply. "I can throw you back in the gutter." Our noses touched. "Just one merciless phone call, and you'll be the worthless possession of yardies once more. Bianca."
"Please don't," she whimpered, hot tears streaming from her crystal blue eyes. "I want to be here."
"If you upset my wife one more time," I said with a deathly promise, and her nodding became vigorously desperate. "I will watch while they punish you and still sleep peacefully at night. Have I made myself abundantly fucking clear?"
"Yes," she cried.
I threw Cherry aside. Her body rolled across the shiny, leather shoes of stationed security. "Put the money on my desk," I ordered, listening to her short, whooping cough. "Do not make an enemy of me, Cherry. I will ruin you."
***
Cazale suffered blunt-force trauma to the head, which caused severe internal bleeding. He died, taking Moretti's location to the grave with him. Nate apologised for medical negligence before he transported the man's dead body to an old, abandoned warehouse, where he plans to set the corpse's soul alight.
I laid in bed all night until the sun shed light across the horizon. Sleep is unachievable without Alexa by my side. My head rested on her pillow, and I palmed the cold, empty sheet. Her sweet-scented fragrance lasted in the dimly lit room, which rekindled the nostalgic pain in my chest.
I went to our shared walk-in wardrobe, unfastened the McQueen travel bag and packed lingerie, pyjamas, cosmetics, including makeup and hair products, casual and formal clothing.
Opening the dresser drawer, I selected knee-high socks, perched them on top of the folded towels, rezipped the case and grabbed her phone from the clutch purse she discarded at Club 11.
Showered and besuited for a long day at the office, I carried the travel bag to the kitchen, poured black coffee into a mug and sent Eddie a text message.
Me: Where is Alexa?
Eddie: Mrs Warren went to the store last night with two women and returned to Pierced & Inked ten minutes later with alcohol.
Eddie: Mrs Warren has not left the building since.
Me: Jax will drive over and give you Alexa's bag. Be sure that she has it before nine o'clock.
Eddie: Of course, Sir.
Detecting heavy footsteps, I stuffed the phone in my trouser pocket, put my back to the counter and, with cataloguing eyes, scrutinised Logan's navy Jordan tracksuit, high top trainers and reverse facing snapback. His brows bounced to his hairline in silent acknowledgement. Hurling the gym bag onto a stool, he pulled open the fridge door, dwelled on orange or apple juice, settled for full-fat milk and ripped into a cereal bar.
I forgot to hire a tutor. "What are your plans?"
Logan licked the milk from his upper lip. "I'm meeting Tre."
"I should think not," I said, and he frowned. "You will stay in the dining room all day and study until I pay someone to educate you."
He binned breakfast wrappers. "Actually, I arranged to meet Tre because we attend the same high school."
I stared at him with hardened eyes. "You enrolled in a new high school?"
"No." He scratched his jaw, exhibiting the ice-gold bracelet on his wrist. "Look, Tre's cool. He's got a shit-ton of friends and invited me to hang with them. That's good, right?"
"I suppose your argument is somewhat pragmatic."
"Exactly," he supported his case. "Besides, I can't go through life hiding from my problems. If I run away from something as stupid as school bullies, I am setting myself up for a fall. By choosing the easy option, I am destined for a lifetime of cowardice."
I respected his dauntlessness. "Impressive."
Logan's face reddened as he smiled. "Is Alexa home?" he asked, and my chest constricted. "I texted her last night to see if she needed me at the youth centre later..." He noticed the sudden change in my demeanour. "Never mind."
"Alexa is staying with a friend," I said evasively. "I will have her phone returned shortly. I am sure she will respond."
He collected the gym bag. "Do you need someone to talk to?"
I gave a bitter laugh. "You are fifteen, Logan. I have nothing to share with you."
"Alright." Boldness masked his agitation. "No need to be a dick."
"Watch your mouth," I chastised, and his eyes journeyed the ceiling. "If you do not visit Inseparable Youths, I expect you home by eight p.m. Understood?"
"Are you babysitting?" Derision grated his tone of voice. "If Alexa's not home, who will cook my tea?"
"You are cruising for a slap," I scolded him for the babysitting comment, and he stifled amusement. "What does Alexa cook for you?"
He considered the question. "Roast beef dinner."
"Roast beef dinner?" Alexa can barely cook a chicken. "Frozen, I presume."
"From scratch," he said, and I raised an eyebrow. "Proper roast potatoes. Fresh vegetables. And her gravy?" His eyes rolled to the back of his head theatrically. "Best I ever tasted."
I cannot remember the last time I ate a full roast. "Interesting."
His lips thinned. "You like that word."
I overlooked his snark. "I will be home to cook."
"Can I invite Tre?"
"Don't push your luck."
"Fair enough." He ebbed toward the kitchen door. "I guess I'll catch you later."
I anticipated the slam of the Manor's front door on Logan's departure and then sent another text message.
Me: I have to cook tea for the boy. Buy essentials and leave them at the Manor before you drive to the club.
Nate: Anything specific?
Me: Beef roast.
He sent a confused emoji.
Me: I am doing it for Alexa.
Nate: Is she home?
Me: No.
Nate: You are feeding the kid to get in her good book, huh?
Me: Have you located Blaire?
Nate: Not yet.
I deleted Nate's message thread and thumbed a quick question to Jace.
Me: Is she okay?
It was delivered.
He read the text.
Three dots danced on the screen.
Jace: I think she's still asleep.
I sent another message.
Me: Meet me at Live Bar.
Vincent: Did you text the wrong person?
Me: No.
Vincent. Well, in that case, I do not march to your drum, brother. If you wish to see me, request a meeting.
I inhaled. Exhaled.
Me: It's important.
He read the message and responded precisely five minutes later.
Vincent: Enumerate the entirety of the meeting.
I had to count to ten before replying.
Me: I will not beg for your time, Vincent. Meet me at the Live bar, or I will trash the paperwork.
Vincent: What time suits you?
Me: Be there at ten p.m.
Vincent: Very well.
***
Melodic jazz music uplifted low spirits. Regal pinewood chairs tucked beneath red-covered tables. Majestic curtains, drawn yet draped, adorned the floor-to-ceiling windows and artificial vines clambered the stone walls. I sat in the corner booth, half-filled coffee in hand, Joe Henderson's 'Lazy Afternoon' playing almost inaudibly from the old jukebox. Tailored men tended tables, delivering full English breakfasts, brewed tea and warm pastries: miniature jam jars and one-sided toast.
Vincent appeared, blocking my view. "Are you depressed?" He popped open the button of his slate grey suit jacket, pinched a chair from the empty table to our right and became seated. "Well, you called. I came running." He clicked down a waitress and ordered Americano. "What is the urgency of this meeting?"
I slid the document across the table.
His fingers teased the stapled paper. "Deed poll," he read the bold black font. "What is your request?"
"You're an intelligent man, Vincent." I placed a parker pen atop the document. "Elucidation is hardly necessary."
He picked up the pen; it twitched between his fingers. "Valerie will remonstrate."
"The fragility of our birth mother's heart means nothing to me," I said savagely. "This is not about them, Valerie and Raymond. It involves two brothers amalgamating for the greater good." I tossed the business partnership agreement contract on top of the deed poll. "Do not expect another peace offering if you decline."
Vincent scanned the contract. "How will it work?"
"I plan to relocate the office," I said, keeping minor details to myself. "You will work from Club 11 full-time."
He hummed. "You want me to change my surname."
"It's your birthright. Raymond Warren, to my dismay, is our biological father. Legally validate the commitment with a signature If you wish to join forces."
Vincent was oddly quiet, and then, rotating the pen to expose the delicate nib, he signed across the dotted line. "When do you relocate?"
"Soon." I rubbed the tension pounding at my temples. "Do we have an agreement?"
"If I sign to co-own Club 11, you must accept profit-sharing and collaborative decision making. I will not—nor will I ever be—your hired help. Excluding the syndicate, of course."
I gave him a sharp nod. "You have my word."
Vincent rolled his neck until bones clicked. "Okay." He scribbled a signature. "I suppose we should celebrate. Macallan?"
"Unfortunately, I must decline." At least until I discuss recent quandaries with Alexa. "Another time, perhaps."
His eyes were probing. "Is everything peachy at home?"
I cracked a wolfish smirk. "Define peachy?"
Interest dilated his pupils. "Is Alexa misbehaving?"
"Quite the contrary. I overstepped. Alexa's pertinacious and rightly so."
His fingers drummed along the contract. "Your wife is the reason behind new business ventures."
"Alexa's happiness outweighs everything." I swallowed the remainder of the cold coffee. "Do not cast judgement, Vincent. It's only a new office."
"I am a sympathiser," he said, calm and collected. "I support your decision indefinitely. Although, I must ask, what did you do so catastrophically wrong?"
My tongue swept my lower lip. "My wife demanded prioritisation. I failed."
"Alexa's predominantly good-natured." He utilised a steak knife to peel a granny smith apple. "What are her requirements?"
"Not to arise alone in the morning," I said, and he listened intently. "The occasional date night. Respect. Faithfulness."
"Tell me you didn't fail all of the abovementioned." His glare honed. "You took vows."
"Why does everyone presume the worst?" I asked, waving down the waitress for another coffee. "So, I played the field once upon a time. I left philandering behind the second I met Alexa, yet I am forever judged for the sexual encounters of my past. I never claimed to be a fucking saint. I have an unchangeable life story that I cannot pardon."
Vincent, unfazed by my feverishness, chewed apple peel.
"I am devoted to my wife." My heart rate began to decelerate. "I can be in a room full of naked women, but I do not see them. It will always be Alexa."
His expression sharpened. "I see," he said, absorbed in thought. "Alexa stipulated scant attention. Her desires are no different to any other woman. You provided an anomalous honeymoon, which tells me you can be quite the romantic. Fortnightly, date your wife. Is she deserving?" he asked, and I nodded. "Business can wait for one night, brother. Love cannot."
"Have you ever been in love, Vincent?" I wondered aloud.
He clenched his jaw. "Yes."
My interest piqued. "Go on."
Dry laughter rattled his throat. "It's not relevant."
"Perhaps you will invite her to dinner someday." The waitress arranged fresh coffees onto the table. "I am sure Alexa would be elated for some female company."
Vincent slapped the apple stump onto the waitress' hand, and she studied the juice trickling between her bending fingers in utter disgust. "Be a darling," he said broodingly. "Discard. I might even leave a decent tip."
"Right," she clipped. "No problem."
He watched her saunter behind the quiet bar. "You stare." He fixed his satin tie. "Maybe that's your problem."
I blinked in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
"Your eyes wander in the presence of other women. Noteworthy for future reference."
Naturally, my eyes directed to the female in question. Her fair hair weaved into a braid down her back, and she wore black trousers and a white fitted shirt.
His chair creaked as he leaned back. "Well?"
"Until your accusation, I never paid attention," I defended myself. "I was more concerned with the apple in her hand."
"Not a forceful assertion," he said tamely. "Awareness for unmindful scrutiny."
Feelings of guilt clawed at my insides.
Is that what Alexa noted? Perfunctory glances?
"Marking my surroundings and everyone within my proximity is second nature. I can assure you that I mean no harm." My eyes dazzled with fake merriment. "Unless I feel threatened."
My phone vibrated on the table.
I checked the notification, and my heart squeezed upon seeing Alexa's name.
Alexa: Thank you for packing a bag. I appreciate it.
I replied instantly.
Me: It's not what I want, but I respect your decision.
I held the phone so tightly that my knuckles whitened.
Alexa: Hmm.
"What is that?" I asked, and my brother eyed me over the coffee mug's rim. "Hmm, Alexa responded. How to interpret?"
Vincent laughed out loud. "I am not able to speak for your wife."
"For the life of me, I cannot understand women." My stare fixated on the screen. "How do I reply to such flippancy?"
"You don't," he advised, and with great reluctance, I placed the phone back onto the table. "Am I right to assume you agreed to momentary separation?"
"How did your overactive brain conjure separation?" My head cocked to the side. "When did I insinuate as much?"
A dark, guarded veil fell over his troubled countenance. "Give her space," he proceeded to lecture. "Allow her heart to ache in your absence."
My phone screen brightened.
Logan: Alexa called in sick. I will be home early.
Logan: Please, can I invite Tre over? We have to watch the latest Fast and Furious movie.
Fingers twitching to question my wife, I swiped the phone and replied to the lad's message.
Me: Fine.
Logan: You're a legend.
Logan: Is it cool if Amber chills, too?
My skin pricked with heat.
Me: Who the fuck is Amber?
Logan: Tre's friend.
Logan: And mine, I guess.
Me: No.
Logan: Why not?
Me: Because I fucking said so, that's why.
Logan: Seriously, I wouldn't nag, but it's my birthday in two weeks. I want to hang out with them as much as I can before I have to say goodbye.
I sat back against the booth's leather padding.
Logan: Actually, don't worry. I should be grateful, not ungrateful.
Me: You can invite Tre. No girls until you and I have a chat.
Logan: What kinda chat?
Me: Don't play smart.
A gif of Joey Tribbiani shrugging his shoulders appeared on my screen.
Me: Logan...
Logan: We're talking about sex, aren't we?
Me: If you have sex before the legal age of eighteen, you will obtain knob rot.
Logan. WTF!
Logan: Not to be technical, but the legal requirement is sixteen.
Logan: And I don't even think about sex.
Logan: I lied. Obviously, I think about sex. I mean, of course, I want to lose the V card. But I haven't done the deed yet, so don't stress—no need to talk me through the birds and the bees.
Vincent paid the bill and rose to his feet.
"Where are you going?"
"To bore someone else into ignorance," he said, his tone clipped and sarcastic. "Is there any other paperwork to sign, or can I be excused?"
Vincent walked away before I responded.
I collected the documents, fished the Bentley keys out of my trouser pocket and drove to the Manor to prepare Logan's roast dinner.
***
Brad's topless, bare-foot and following me around the kitchen like an annoying puppy. "So, cooking for Logan equals brownie points from your wife." He swiped a Yorkshire pudding and rammed it in his mouth. "You conniving bugger," he mumbled, pinching plated roasties. "Fuck." I witnessed unchewed fodder strain down his throat. "I forgot how good your food tasted."
Yes, back in the day, many years before Alexa, if not unhealthy takeaway, I cooked at the penthouse, and Brad, who owned a luxurious apartment in central London yet never slept there, often sampled dishes, or, from time to time, he took the reins and knocked recipes together.
"I forgot how much I despised cooking." Whipping the tea towel over my shoulder, I stirred the panned gravy, lowered the heat and admired my hard work: shredded cabbage, carrot batons, petit pois, green beans, cauliflower cheese, boiled potatoes, mash for the nit-pickers, perfect roast beef and homemade gravy. "Pour me a glass of orange juice."
Brad's disbelieving eyes stabbed me. "I'm sorry, what?"
I glared wordlessly.
"Orange juice." He was suddenly serious. "Are you for real?"
My arms crossed.
"Fucking hell." He extracted the juice carton from the fridge. "Sobriety is boring. Your wise words." He slid the rim-filled glass across the counter. "I squeezed those freshly picked oranges by hand. Enjoy."
I downed the entire glass, quenching thirstiness.
His disgusted scowl toured my features. "Are you fighting unspoken alcoholism or something?"
"No, I do not require alcohol to function. However, recent intoxication upset Alexa." And her sanity, I thought. "From now on, I will drink wisely. As for drugs, I would be lying if I vowed never to smoke again, but I am done with cocaine."
Brad's jaw slackened. "I happen to enjoy cocaine and sex, so don't expect me to jump on the bandwagon. You can sail that uneventful voyage alone."
"Relax." In the kitchen's adjacent dining room, I arranged cutlery on the table. "I don't need anyone to hold my hand."
He carried serving trays into the dining room. "So, are we feeding the five thousand? We have enough food to cater a homeless shelter." Male laughter echoed in the hall, and he looked towards the door. "You are late," he lied, and Logan's footsteps stumbled. "You must be Tre." Every muscle in his upper body deliberately flexed as his arms crossed. "Well, don't just stand there, gawk-eyed and panting. Thank the boss for cooking and tuck in."
Exchanging mystified glances, Logan and Tre, casting their gym bags aside, sat at the long-stretched table.
"It smells so good." Logan scooped heaped vegetables onto his plate. "It's been too long since I smashed one of these bad boys."
I paused with the gravy boat. "I thought Alexa provided roast dinners."
Logan snorted. "Alexa never cooks. If she does..." He perceived the defensiveness in my eyes and recoiled. "I love her toasted pancakes."
"Toasted pancakes?" Brad stole the gravy boat and doused his mashed potato. "Do explain."
"Yeah, well, like, she tears open the package..." Logan watched as I pulled a chair back and sat directly opposite him. "I mean, she heats them on the frying pan and then sprinkles fresh fruit and dollops of yoghurt."
Tre's eyebrows snapped inwards.
Brad's smile stretched. "I fucking love your wife."
I forked sliced beef onto my plate.
"Tre," Brad prepared for battle, "Bossman mentioned your newfound friendship with Logan. Is that since the basketball game?"
Tre nodded.
"Nice." He chewed carrots. "Who's Amber?"
I felt Logan's questioning eyes but paid him no heed. His foot nudged my shin under the table.
"Brad's second-in-command," I said uncaringly. "We discuss everything."
Tre's protruding eyes rallied from one head to another. "Amber is, like, my girlfriend?"
"You sound unsure." Brad poured Jameson into a crystal glass. "Must I differentiate between girlfriends and hookups?"
"No, I think I got it."
"Do you have sex with, like, your girlfriend?" Brad ridiculed.
Tre blanched. "Sometimes."
I flung Logan a look of disappointment.
"What?" The lad's hands shot up. "Hey, just because he's getting laid, it doesn't mean I am."
"If I find out that you are having sex, specifically unprotected sex," I warned, pointing the fork in his direction, "I will beat the fucking shit out of you."
Logan's jaw muscles ticked. "Duly fucking noted."
"Watch your mouth." My teeth gritted. "Now, eat your dinner."
He let go of the cutlery and stood so abruptly the chair legs scraped across the floor. "Fuck dinner."
"Logan," I snapped, and he slowly turned to face me. "I did this for you."
"No, you did it for Alexa," he said, and my shoulders pushed back. "It's cool. I won't tell her you embarrassed me in front of my friend." He uprooted his phone and tapped a quick message. "Done. I had a fun night with Liam. He even cooked for me. Happy?"
His footsteps stomped into the hallway.
My released fork clattered against the plate.
Brad's lips puckered. "Well, that went well."
Tre rose from the chair. "Should I...?"
Brad stared through him. "Fuck off."
I would never admit this out loud, but I only want to protect the boy from chaos. Logan wasn't brought up. He was dragged up. Late or not, he needs guidance. Underage sex and teenage pregnancy cannot happen.
Not on my watch.————————————————
I will come back for any typos. ❤️
Thoughts on the update?
—Liam?
—Vincent?
—Brad?
—Tre?
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