Page 26 of London’s Calling, Part 1 (London’s Calling)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Mickey

After a shower and a large, strong coffee, I call my dad.

“Son, everything okay?” he asks when he answers the phone.

“Yeah, everything is fine,” I say with a laugh. “Can’t a son call his dad on a Sunday just to say hello?”

“Not if said son is you, no.”

“I feel called out.” He laughs. “So, before I left yesterday, I was looking for another way to get our hands on the Towers, and seeing Kerr’s name triggered an idea.”

“Go on,” my father urges, adequately intrigued.

“Since Clayton fired his board of directors, buying shares on the open market is out of the question, but what if there was a shareholder for both Clayton’s Towers and Kerr’s Bankside hotels?”

“I’d say, we have a chance, but that depends on who the shareholder is and whether they want to sell,” he says, and I sense the raised eyebrow.

“Okay, old man, let me do some digging.”

“Hey, less of the old man. Don’t reach out until you talk to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Chat later.”

I end the call and look up my target online. Dad didn’t ask me to confirm who the shareholder is, so either he knows who it is, or he suspects it’s not someone he would be keen to do business with. He’d be right on that last count.

Ike Castello, Italian father, English mother, small-time outfit, no affiliation with the five families.

He owns a restaurant across from one Simmonds’ hotels, completely legit, but I know he’s had some dealings with drugs and the cartel.

It’s why my dad turned him down when he proposed opening a restaurant in one of our bigger hotels.

Dad won’t touch anything or anyone associated with the cartels.

It seems that after Dad turned Ike down, he thought investing in Tower and Bankside would be a good idea. I just need to find out how far that investment goes before going to Dad.

Dropping my head back against the chair, I’m looking at the ceiling and begin to wonder what Roni is doing up there, if she’s even there.

My mind quickly conjures an image of her getting herself off again, only this time she’s using a dildo, an exact replica of my cock…

Damn! My cock hardens, pressing against my joggers.

I’m on my feet and heading upstairs to the secret door before I have time to think about it.

Everything is great until I step out of the wardrobe in the guest room.

The door is closed, but that’s not what has me concerned.

No, it’s the empty glass stuffed in the top of a box and the faint scent of whiskey that tickles my senses.

She’s been in here, drinking. That in itself isn’t cause for concern but…my gut tells me something happened. Dumping the glass back where it was, I stride to the door, not caring about being quiet, and open the—What the fuck? It’s locked.

I press my ear to the door, but I don’t hear anything. I crouch and look through the keyhole only to find it blocked—by the fucking key!

“Roni!” I bang on the door three times and wait.

Nothing. I do it again, then again, getting louder each time.

After ten minutes of banging and calling her name with still no sign of her, I contemplate going the usual way, through the front door, but I dismiss it when I realise I don’t know if anyone is watching her place.

Based on her injuries the other night, I don’t want to do anything that might cause her to get hurt again.

I’m surprised that I’m not more surprised by my concern for her.

I pull out my phone and call her, but it rings off.

I continue thumping on the door for another five minutes.

“Roni! Veronica, open the fucking door!”

Her amused voice greets me through the door, and the relief is instant. She sounds okay, happy, no doubt at my predicament.

“Ice Queen, thank fuck! Open the door, please.” I rest my forehead on the door waiting for the click of the lock, only for her to tell me no and she’s going for a shower.

“Roni! Roni! What the fuck? Let me in,” I shout, banging both fists on the door.

Realising she’s not going to let me in and now the urgency has eased, my brain begins to work rationally.

Short of heading back to my apartment and finding a screwdriver, if I even have one, and removing the hinges, which is a little extreme, my only other option is a classic movie trick.

I dig out a piece of paper from the box with the discarded glass, then look for something I can poke through the keyhole.

Coat hanger.

I’ve never been more grateful for a wire coat hanger.

Discarding the jacket, I bend the hook straight, then slide the piece of paper under the door below the keyhole.

Slotting the wire into the keyhole, and with a gently push, the key falls to the floor with a clunk.

Two minutes later, I’m crashing into the ensuite.

I expected my rude and abrupt interruption to be met with fright, a scream, something. But not in my wildest imagination did I expect to find Roni—a naked, wet Roni—leaning against the tiled wall, water raining down on her, casually waiting there.

“Took you longer enough,” she taunts, pushing away from the wall and stepping to the shower door, raising her arms and hanging onto the frame above. “And here I was thinking you were smart.”

My eyes lower, taking in her body as a bead of water rolls between her breasts down to her navel. It’s damn hard trying to not see the bruise on her left side, but it’s impossible to not allow my anger at the mark on her skin get the better of me.

A hand on my face snaps my eyes back to hers. “Hey, I’m okay.” Her eyes scan my face, imploring me to believe her. “Now, are you going to join me or do I need to shower alone?” As she steps back from the door, she trails her finger down my cheek and over my lips.

With an offer like that on the table, it would be rude not to. Right?

I’m going with that and begin stripping out of my clothes, stepping in alongside her a minute later.