Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Beau lets out a bark of laughter, and it’s so great to hear, even if our humor is warped. “Do not let him hear you say that.”
I scoff. “What will he do? Kill me? We just established our husbands are terrible murderers.” I’m talking shit. They’re frighteningly talented at ending lives. They just got the wrong life on this occasion.
“Anyway,” Beau goes on. “Husbands? I’ve not married my killer.” She smirks at the road.
“Why don’t you just say yes?” I know he’s asked, more than once.
“Because he killed Lawrence’s husband,” she says on a shrug.
What? I stare at her, my mouth open. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I only found out last night before dinner, and in case you missed it, a lot of shit has hit the fan since then.” She gives me a high eyebrow, and I sigh. “It’s going to be okay, you know that, right?” Reaching for my hand, she gives it a comforting squeeze. I don’t know what Beau’s had, but I want some.
“How do you know?” This is like an unbearable, spinning merry-go-round, everyone’s emotions constantly being tossed from exhilarated to despair.
“Because you’re married to The Brit, and I am with The Enigma.” She takes her hand back to the wheel, smiling.
“Did you miss the shit hitting the fan last night?” I ask, completely bemused.
“I’m meditating. Lawrence insisted.”
“What, and now you’re all up for war?” I ask, sarcasm rife in my tone.
“Not up for it. Perhaps just accepting. You should try it.”
“Accepting?”
“Meditating. It might lead to acceptance.”
“I cannot accept raising my baby in the criminal underworld. I’m not becoming a mafia family.”
“Rose,” Beau sighs, reaching over and giving my belly a rub. “I hate to break it to you, but we’re already a mafia family.”
I pout and clench her hand, hoping one day I can feel my friend’s tummy and know there’s life in there again for her too. Family. We’re one big fucked-up family. Fucked up, yes, but we all have each other.
“What do you think it is?”
“What what is?” I ask, confused.
“The baby.” She laughs. “Boy or girl?” Her curiosity endears me and pains me. How happy she is for me, and yet so deeply sad for herself and James.
“I hope it’s a boy, because—”
“Imagine Danny with a girl.”
“Exactly.” We both shiver at the thought. He would never cope.
“What are we shopping for anyway?” she goes on.
Shaking my head, back to bemused, I pull out my cell. “I’m making that curry I told you about.” I show her the screen and the recipe I saw on TV the other day. Just watching TV. Chilling out. Being a vegetable. Eating. Drinking broccoli juice. Bliss. “I need every vegetable known to man and some goat.”
“And will you be talking to your husband by this evening when we all descend on you for dinner?”
“Tonight’s cancelled,” I mumble. “I can’t imagine everyone is up for it after last night, anyway. I’ll eat the curry myself.”
“Okay,” she breathes, sounding as convinced as I feel. Not about the curry. I’ll eat it all, no problem.
3
JAMES
I knew there wouldn’t be a meeting today. Not after the state of Danny last night, and definitely not after turning up at their villa this morning and seeing both of their faces. All is not well in the Black residence. So I took him out on the water, hoping to shake some life back into him. He managed to pull his head out of his arse briefly in front of Daniel before Fury took the kid back to the villa to do some studying with his private tutor.
Then . . . back to brooding. I let him be. I’ve learned during the short time Danny and I have known each other not to disturb him when he’s sulking like a brat. He’ll talk when he’s ready.
“I’ll see you later,” I say as he trudges off up the beach toward his villa, raising a hand in acknowledgment. I frown at his back. “Is now a good time to talk about the next shipment from Chaka?”
“No.”
“What the fuck have you done, Danny?” This despondency, Rose’s face, neither are a result of too much alcohol on his part and a meltdown on hers. Something’s happened.
“I’ll see you later for dinner,” he calls, ignoring my question. “And get some fucking sunscreen on your back.”
I rake a hand through my wet hair and roll my shoulders, feeling my skin becoming tight, just from a few minutes’ exposure. I pull my wetsuit back up my chest and call Otto.
He answers immediately. “I was just going to call you.”
“Why?”
“Click the link I just sent.”
My phone dings in my ear, and I pull it away, doing as I’m told, knowing before I’ve seen what Otto’s sent me that I’m not going to like it. But I massively underestimate how much. “The fuck?” I whisper.