Page 2 of Stolen By the Mafia King
“Am I too late for the wedding?” he drawls and his voice is a sweet smoky liquor that sends heat through my body.
Oh. Shit. This could derail everything.
He’s the boss of the Lambeth mafia that controls the centre of London. Where my brother and David think they’re powerful and rich, they’re feudal lords, beholden to the king: Grant Lambeth.
“You’re early,” Colin says, so awkwardly it sounds like a lie. “This is the rehearsal dinner.”
Grant’s chin tilts arrogantly.
He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And dangerous. Inherited his father’s failing territory at eighteen, before I was even born, and has built it into the most powerful in London.
What Grant Lambeth wants, he gets.
Which is why everyone in the room has stopped eating and is staring as he prowls towards us like a black panther through shadowed foliage. Perhaps this could work in my favour. No one will bother with me when there’s a hungry predator on the loose.
In a grey suit that fits so perfectly it must have been made for him, he’s controlled but has a hint of the roughness that got him to the top of the ladder. His dark hair, with silver at his temples, has a slight curl that makes it seem a little mussed and invites touch like a lion’s mane. An uncompromising square jaw is covered with masculine stubble, as though he was too busy with being a brutal and genius kingpin to shave this morning. His nose has a tiny kink where it was once broken.
Perfect imperfections.
I’ve only met him on a handful of occasions, and each time his eyes have gleamed and taken me in. He speaks with me at every event we’ve both attended. His deep rumbling voice makes me shy as he asks after my health and the progress of my studies, then passes on with only a brief sidelong glance. The person who regularly enquires about me is a stranger, not say, my brother or fiancé. Grant Lambeth’s attention to detail—he remembers I’ve been doing a degree in interior design and I twisted my ankle last year—must be part of the all-knowing mafia boss persona. Even realising that, it’s pathetic how his notice feels special. Because somehow the kingpin’s face is familiar beyond those few interactions.
Honestly, I think there’s something wrong with me. I see Grant Lambeth everywhere. Glimpses. It’s not him, it can’t be. My overactive brain notices his grey eyes in the wing mirror when I get into a car to be taken home, or thinks I recognise the outline of his shoulders, or the soft wave of his dark hair, when I’m out running in the park.
Delusional. As though the kingpin would have any interest in me. I’m so desperate for attention my brain makes up a stalker.
The young waiter from earlier slips inconspicuously around the table and replaces my glass. I don’t dare look away from Grant, but murmur my thanks under my breath. Gotta be kind to the little guys, even when you might get murdered by the kingpin. As the boy passes at a discreet distance, head lowered—smarter than he looks—Grant’s arm shoots out.
“Lay another place setting, please. I’ll be joining for dinner.” The words are a request, but his tone has the weight of an order that will be fulfilled or blood will flow. Grant releases the waiter, who scuttles off.
“Do continue eating,” he says as his gaze snaps to where David’s hand is still slack and moist now like a slug, as though he can see through the wood. A lightning strike of fury burns in his eyes, there and gone in an instant, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
David slowly suctions his hand from my thigh and, sweating at the brow, hands trembling, picks up his cutlery and cuts a slither of meat. Under the kingpin’s pointed look, David puts the food into his mouth and chews like it might kill him. Which is a serious consideration.
It’s not random that Lambeth is here. He wants something.
“There,” Lambeth indicates with a flick of his wrist, and in seconds the waiter has set a place for him right opposite me.
Everyone eyes him warily and I allow myself to look too. After all, I won’t see him again. I wonder if I will stop hallucinating him once I’m in Australia? He’s a compelling figure as he gracefully sits. Although big, and the width of his shoulders hints at muscles, he’s smooth in his movements. That door breakage earlier? Deliberate.
I subtly take a deep breath. Calming, like the videos show. Another. In goes the future. Out the past. In goes a woman in control. Out goes a scared little girl terrified the kingpin will disrupt all her plans.
Leaning across the table, Grant refills my water glass. It’s loud as a waterfall, even with the nondescript piano music, because no one says anything. Only David is valiantly trying to pretend this is all normal by doing as Grant told him, like a good underling. The sound of him eating next to me is awful. Grotesque. All clicking teeth, the scraping of metal on bone, tearing flesh, and moist noises that turn my stomach.
“Are you in love?” Grant asks abruptly. He doesn’t specify who he means, but he’s watching me like I’m a little grey fluffy rabbit he’s going to eat for supper.
I tremble under his scrutiny. What is the right answer here? I haven’t a clue. It’s a mafia marriage, what does he expect? And what does hecare?
“A marriage brings a cornucopia of benefits to all parties involved,” Colin says with an edge of panic. Probably he’s worried I’ll say,no, or point out that all the benefits are to him. “Where one of those is love from the beginning, it’s a romantic extra.”
“That’s your view, is it?” There’s a pinch between Grant’s eyebrows and he hasn’t turned his head to look at my brother.
The waiter returns with a plate of food and leans over the kingpin as he fills his glass with red wine, splashing a little onto the inner side of the glass as his hand shakes. Poor bungling kid, anyone would be afraid of Grant Lambeth.
I watch it happen in slow motion. The waiter is trembling so hard, and desperate to get away, and I think that’s what causes the crisis.
As he retracts the bottle, it tips. Wine spills down the kingpin’s chest. Bright red splatters over his heart, stark on his white shirt. Like blood. Just like blood.
I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion.
