I pushed out into the warm night and slid into the van’s back seat. My boys all piled in, and we made our way back to the yacht. I stared out of the window, at Marbella and the drunks falling out of the bars. Johnny was right. I was a sadistic murderer. Because I felt fuck all about killing him. About gutting him like a pig despite knowing him my entire life.
All my emotions had burned in a blazing inferno alongside my sister and mum the night the cottage caught fire and it stripped them of their bones and flesh. I had nothing left. And whatever still lingered liked to kill and cause pain to others. It screamed at me to punish, to seek revenge for my family that died.
“I’m going to get badges made for us.” Eric started laughing. As did Freddie. “Club Nutjob Murderers.”
“Are we going back clubbing?” Freddie asked. “I’ve still got at least four hours of drinking and fucking left in me.”
I could feel Charlie looking at me. I didn’t give a fuck what we did. Clearly my cousin got that message. “Tom,” Charlie said to our driver. “Take us to the most debauched club in Marbella. We need to get all kinds of fucked up tonight.”
“You’ve got it,” Tom said. I pulled my mobile from my pocket.
GOOD JOB, SON, my old man had texted. Charlie nudged my arm and handed me the picture Freddie had taken of the basement. I was immediately met with blood and carnage and Johnny hanging as if on a stake with his innards hanging out … and fuck, it made me feel good.
Chapter Two
CHESKA
“If you stare at that bloody yacht any more, you’ll burn a hole in its side.” I looked from Arthur’s yacht to Arabella. She was lying on her lounger on the sun deck, head tilted back, her SPF-drenched dark skin shimmering under the blistering Marbella sun.
I took a sip of my mojito, letting the mint and lime cool me down. I saw a few of Arthur’s friends on the deck. But he wasn’t there. I hadn’t seen him since the night in the club. Not long after Ollie Lawson and his friends came, Arthur and his boys had disappeared. I had no idea where to. But they hadn’t come back.
My cheeks blazed when I thought back to him looking at me right in the eyes as he fingered the girl on his lap. As her eyes rolled back and she moaned out loud as her orgasm barrelled through her.
A hand waved in front of my face, pulling me back from the other night. From Arthur … his dark hair, blue eyes and black-rimmed glasses that just did something to me. I couldn’t read him. He was as impenetrable as Fort Knox. Even when his gaze had been locked on mine, I couldn’t get a bloody read on him. He gave nothing away. It was as if he was soulless. As if he lacked any basic emotion.
Cool.
Calculated.
Deadly.
The hand before my face moved faster. When I shook my head, withdrawing myself from thoughts of Arthur and those eyes that were as unbreakable as a bank safe, it was to see Freya. She smiled, but I could see a tinge of worry in her dark eyes.
She studied me, then put her palm on my forehead as if checking my temperature. I moved her hand away. “Frey,” I said, sighing. “I’m fine.”
“Just checking you haven’t got a fever or anything. Or heat exhaustion.” She took a sip of her Chardonnay. Her purple bikini somehow made her Irish features look more pronounced, and made her curves look like something out of a Renaissance painting.
“I’m completely well.”
Arabella sat up and moved her Gucci sunglasses from her espresso eyes. Her curls framed her beautiful face. “You do know that yacht belongs to Alfie Adley, don’t you?” Her lips were pursed with worry. “That guy you keep staring at is Arthur Adley. The Arthur Adley, heir to the Adley firm and their empire of death and destruction.”
“I know who he is. I have done since we met at thirteen, remember?”
“Yeah, we remember,” Freya said. “But do you? Alfie Adley was there to cash in on a debt your father owed. He wasn’t there for a night of drinks and billiards.”
“I know that,” I snapped. Freya and Arabella glanced at each other as though I’d lost my bloody mind. Maybe I had. All I knew was that, over the years, Arthur had become an obsession of mine. And now he was here. In the flesh. Docked next to us. Looking my way with that steely gaze that seemed to make my knees weak and my mind lose all of its senses.
“Daddy made a mistake. He explained it all to me. He made a bad investment.” I shrugged. “He sorted it and hasn’t had dealings with the Adleys again since.”
“Yet, here you are, wanting to fuck Arthur every which way to Sunday.” Arabella raised an eyebrow at me, waiting for my response.
The sound of raucous laughter came from the Adley yacht, and I glanced over. Just then, Arthur walked out onto the deck, a large gin glass in his hand. He seemed more often than not to be drinking gin, I’d noticed. It must have been his drink of choice—straight, with ice, no mixer. He was shirtless, wearing navy-blue shorts, his black-rimmed glasses firmly in place.
Christ, he was perfection. His skin was slightly kissed by the sun, and his dark hair looked like onyx under the midday sun’s rays.
As if feeling my stare, he looked over, his eyes landing straight on mine. His cousin, Charlie, followed his gaze, his eyes narrowing on me as if I were a problem he wanted to solve. My breathing came faster as Arthur didn’t look away from me. Not even when Freddie Williams stood beside him and started talking in his ear.
“Seriously, Cheska,” Freya said, and I reluctantly looked at my best friend. “Go fuck your boyfriend or something. Get any thought of Arthur Adley from your head.”
Arabella laughed. “Can you imagine taking him home to your daddy? He’d have a damn heart attack.”
“Maybe Arthur isn’t as bad as you think,” I said.
“They’re East End gangsters,” Freya said. “They’re murderers! We’ve all heard the rumours.”
“Freya!” I checked none of the Adley boys had heard her. They were sitting around a table, talking, playing cards and drinking. At least most of them were. Arthur was leaning against the glass doors that led inside the yacht. He was silent, as usual. And his eyes were still on me. My thighs clenched together as he lit a cigarette and inhaled a long drag.
Why was that so damn hot?
“What? It’s true. Everyone knows about them. They’re notorious, Cheska. If Arthur didn’t look like that”—her finger moved up and down him—“then you’d be as petrified of him as we are.”
“How do you think they got that yacht?” Arabella said. “It wasn’t through legitimate businesses like our families. It was through drugs and guns and racketeering.” She huffed a disgusted laugh. “It probably doesn’t even run on petrol. It’ll be fuelled by the blood of the people they’ve killed.”
I rolled my eyes at Arabella’s dramatic words. “You’ve been watching too many crime documentaries. Your imagination is running away with you.”
“If you think Arthur Adley doesn’t belong on those documentaries, as the bad guy, then you belong in Broadmoor loony bin,” Freya said. “No one, in all of Europe, has anything on the Adleys. They’re criminals of the worst kind—untouchable. You need to keep away. You wouldn’t last a day in his world.”