As cemeteries go, this one is beautiful, I suppose. The Camden mafia’s dearly departed are buried in this green haven within London; the grass is fresh and springy, and blood-red tulips stand rigid in beds. The air is scented with the tang of rain, even though the sun has come out.
I watch the mourners from behind a yew tree, the dark boughs and scarlet berries screening me from view. My lip twists with distaste, but a mixture of grief and determination curdles in my stomach. At least one of them is a liar.
I wasn’t invited to Trudy’s funeral—probably because they think I’m dead—so I brought myself. Everyone I left when I fled the Camden mafia is there, dressed in black. All the people I loved or was supposed to love.
And King.
My pulse flutters. The most dangerous of them all. Tall, dark haired. Imposing. Ethan King murdered his own brother. No one can prove it, but those are the whispers. You don’t seamlessly take over your brother’s London sector and get close to his widow without causing some gossip.
Even an innocent like me can see what happened to the deceased mafia boss. The question is, who killed Trudy, who is in the coffin being lowered to rest next to her late husband. She was practically a mother to me, and her son—the man it was arranged I should marry—is at her graveside.
My dad should be here too, above or below ground. But we didn’t have a funeral for him. There’s supposedly the idea he’s out of town on business. That was what Henry said, anyway.
To think I used to believe him.
I heft the flowers I’ve brought, a big display of white chrysanthemums and lily of the valley. Sprinkled in are pansies, rosemary, and daisies. And the blade held tucked into the bottom? It’s laced with that innocent-looking lily of the valley. So sweet smelling, it’s intoxicating.
Literally. Toxic. One nick with that knife and they’ll die a painful death.
I know whoever killed Trudy and my father will reveal themselves at this funeral, so I watch.
Henry, the golden boy, is distraught with grief. Crazy with the loss. When the part comes for people to throw handfuls of soil onto the coffin he jumps right into the grave, weeping. Tears course down his face.
Not him. His father was murdered just like mine, and now his mother too. He thinks the dutiful girl his parents picked out for him—me—is dead too.
I examine each mourner, one by one, watching for tells. Everyone looks suitably upset. Sober. Sad.
Except King.
He’s unmoved, but for his glittering eyes and tense jaw. King isn’t distraught, he’s furious. Angry enough to kill, I wonder?
He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, legs planted, arms crossed. But his hair is a little untamed, and he’s so broad in the shoulders he seems liable to burst out with a flex of his muscles.
I observe him as the priest intones a dirgey religious something, and I know.
King murdered her.
And I’m going to get my revenge. One little cut will be all it takes.
I keep my head down as I approach. I am just a flower delivery girl. I’m wearing anonymous black trousers and a shapeless black coat. My long chestnut hair is tucked under a mousy wig in an unflattering and dull bob.
I make nervous sounds of apology as I creep through the mourners. No one looks at me. A few people see the beautiful but forgettable arrangement I carry, and murmur sympathetically. I could be anyone. Trudy was well-liked by her people.
Unlike King. My nearly uncle-in-law was a power couple with Trudy, but he’s a grumpy man. Where Henry’s father was all charm, King is dark and forbidding.
I’d be lying if I said that brooding dangerous thing wasn’t more than a little hot. But delicious men can still be killers; it’s practically compulsory in London. I didn’t get out of Camden to be drawn back in by a tug of lust.
One cut.
Everyone is dispersing now, their grief as changeable as the weather. It was raining earlier, and while it has cleared to bright sunshine the ground is wet and muddy underfoot.
I draw level with King.
He stares down at the soil on Trudy’s coffin. His handful is still gripped in his fist, his knuckles white. Dirty hands. He can’t even bring himself to give her the respect she’s due as the leader of Camden.
Well, he’s the mafioso now, isn’t he?
I guess that was what he wanted: to be the ruler, the only one. He killed his brother, probably my father, and Trudy, all in the pursuit of power.
There was a time—a single night—when I imagined I saw something else in King. A warm, tender man who talked with me about books and films and laughed at my jokes. But in the morning, he was cold as ever. Anyone can play the good guy for an evening, I suppose.
I place the flowers by Trudy’s grave, palming the knife and making a soft sobbing noise that isn’t entirely feigned.
My heart thuds so loudly it’s a helicopter landing in my chest. I ease backwards, intending to accidentally brush King’s shoulder. The blade is impossibly sharp. I’ll slice open his arm through his suit, nick his skin, and be gone before he even realises he’s been cut.
A vice-like grip immobilises my wrist.
“Don’t.”
He jerks me back until my bottom is pressed to his front.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
He doesn’t know. He can’t know. He can’t realise who I am. Henry hasn’t twigged, or any of the hangers-on. King barely knows me.
Even through my shapeless coat, I can feel him. His heat. His strength. The planes of his hard body where my curves meet his muscles.
His thighs shift against my arse, and for a second I’m sure I feel his solid hot length at the small of my back like a gun, primed and ready to go off.
“You don’t want to do that,” he murmurs, voice rough like soft fur brushed the wrong way.
He could kill me. Around us the low chatter of the rest of the mourners continues. Nobody has noticed our little scene playing out here. All they’d see would be me standing dangerously close to King.
He could kill me.
But it’s okay, he won’t. I’m not important enough. He doesn’t know who—
“Olivia.” He says my name into my ear, his breath a caress.
I let out a tiny squeak as terror beats through me. The air clots in my throat.
Despite the pain shooting through my arm from his hold, I twist. Always my father’s daughter, finding a way to play this to my advantage. If I can just…
I mean to turn and slice his leg as I break away, but instead I find myself flush with him. He has effortlessly adjusted his grip and pulled me back in. My eyeline is at his pecs. And even disguised in this expensive suit, I see the shape of his broad chest. Muscle.
Fear shouldn’t heat my skin like this, like sun-warmed petals shaken from a blown-out rose. He’s terrifying. I look up and up and up until I’m staring belligerently into his face.
I haven’t seen him this close before and I can’t help but take him in, greedily. He obviously shaved this morning but already has a shadow of stubble. He has a face that would make models weep, all hard angles. His monstera-leaf green eyes and black hair shot through with silver give him a wild look totally at odds with his refined shirt and tie.
But his eyes. There’s something deep and dark and glittering there I’ve never seen before, not in all the time I felt them on me when I lived in the Camden castle with him and all his minions. Low in my belly, there’s an answering trill. Like a previously dormant part of me recognises this alpha male and wants him.
“Get out of here,” he growls softly.
But he doesn’t release my wrist. If I just flick the blade…
As I try to, King’s other hand covers mine and the knife falls to the grass with a soft thud as pain shoots up my arm. I stifle a cry.
His foot is on the blade before I can react.
“Now go. Live.” He shoves me away, but his eyes follow with depths of longing and conflict I can’t begin to unpack. “I don’t want to see you again.”
King is letting me go? I’ve survived an encounter with a hungry black bear.
“Run, flower girl,” he mouths.
And I do.
I run back to my little job at the florist.
