Ill Repute

Welcome angels!

This is the final book in the mafia series. I'm so excited for you to meet Severo 🥹

I hope you enjoy it, L x

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Jasmine.

I answer the knock at the door. Swinging it open, I blink in surprise at the sight of Officer Mike Dartmoor. We have had a nice friends-with-benefits arrangement in the past, but we haven’t seen each other in a few months now. For a second, I toy with the idea of letting him back in my bed one more time, but then I realise that he’s in uniform. He never comes to my place in his police uniform. I swallow the growing lump in my throat and try to keep my voice calm despite my nerves.

“I take it this isn’t a social call?” I ask quietly, skipping the pleasantries.

His eyebrows tilt down at the ends, his face taking on one of sympathy.

“Can I come in Jasmine? I’ve got some bad news.”

“Sure,” I force the word out.

I step to the side and he wipes his shoes on the mat before coming in. There’s a lot of good things about Mike and one of them is how considerate he is. We wouldn’t make a good couple because we’re too different, but there was enough chemistry there to have some great sex. As the unease grows in my stomach, my mind overworking with a million scenarios, I find myself wishing that this were a booty call.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask as we get to my small kitchen.

“No, it’s alright. Take a seat for me please.”

Each second feels like it is dragging. I want to ask him to blurt out the news but I also want to savour each moment of not knowing, because when he finally does tell me, it will be over and I won’t be able to get the not-knowing back. Slowly, I sink onto one of my barstools. It creaks under my weight, the noise sounding deafening in the tiny room. Mike sighs and rests his clasped hands on the counter in front of him.

“Jasmine, I’m sorry to inform you that your father has passed away.”

My father is dead. My father. The man I haven’t seen in fifteen years.

“Sorry, what?” I murmur numbly.

I was so worried that this was about Bonnie, my best friend, or Jules, my great-aunt. But no, it’s about my deadbeat father that hasn’t been in my life since I was twelve.

“Your father, Roger Mitchell, was found deceased yesterday. Circumstances are suspicious, we think he was murdered. There have been no arrests yet.”

I take a few deep breaths and give myself a moment to process, then I look Mike in the eyes.

“Give me the real story, Mike. It’s me.”

He hesitates and I narrow my eyes. With a sigh, he confesses, “It looks like a mob hit. You knew about his gambling I assume?”

Ever since long before I was born, my father has been a gambler. My mother spent my entire childhood bitching about his addiction, how it destroyed their relationship. It is of no surprise to me that he didn’t manage to clean himself up.

“Yes.”

“Well, we think he owed money to the wrong people. It was a hit, or looks like it.”

I blow out a breath and lean back against the stool. “Shit. What happens now? Do I have to organise a funeral?”

“Not yet, the autopsy isn’t done yet. It’ll probably be about 2-3 weeks before we can release the body but yeah, you’ll have to make arrangements. I can give you some contacts.”

“Thanks,” I reply absently, thinking of how I’m going to afford this.

“Amazingly, we found a will at his place. His lawyer has it now and will contact you to confirm in the next few days I think.”

“Okay.” I run my hands through my hair and find my manners. “Thank you, Mike. I appreciate you coming to tell me in person.”

His eyes soften and he gives me a sad smile. “Of course. We have a history, I wasn’t going to let another officer take this one.”

“Thanks,” I tell him again.

He stays for a little longer until he’s sure I’m okay, then I see him out. I collapse onto my sofa and stare at the wall for God knows how long, feeling confused. Part of me is sad that my father is gone. I am now officially an orphan. Yet I’m not as sad as most would be if they lost their dad.

My mum died when I was eighteen and I reached out to my dad with the number she still had for him. He never responded to my calls or texts. He wasn’t interested in a relationship with me and because of that, I’m not bawling my eyes out upon finding out about his death. I do feel sad though. The only family I have is my great-aunt. My grandmother passed when I was a child but her younger sister is still alive and kicking. She’s all I’ve got left, other than Bonnie of course.

Bonnie.

Knowing it will make me feel better, I call my best friend.

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Three weeks later, Bonnie and I find ourselves standing outside a one-storey wooden cabin in the middle of ass end of nowhere. I fist the key in my hand, eyeing the door warily. I have no idea what we’re going to find on the other side.

As his next of kin, my father’s cabin has been left to me. The tiny amount of money he had to his name was put towards his funeral, I had to cover the cost of most of it. In addition, I have been left with his estate. If you can even call it that.

It looks like a hunting cabin. Situated in the centre of a forest with permission from the land-owners to live here but not renovate or build anything else. It is completely isolated from the rest of the world, only a dirt track leads here from the main road. I learned that my father was paranoid towards the end of his life and wanted to live out here to avoid the thugs when they came to collect his debts. Turns out living in the woods won’t save you after all.

“I’m scared.”

“You and me both,” I mutter to Bonnie.

I expect the key to be stiff in the lock but it turns easily. The door swings open with a long, loud creek.

“Well that’s not creepy at all,” Bonnie says sarcastically.

Cautiously, we step inside. The floorboards creak underfoot but hold fast as we go in further. Silently, we move from room to room, checking out each area.

“Okay, it’s actually not as bad as I was expecting,” I tell her and she nods next to me.

“It’s mostly neglect more than anything, just needs a facelift.”

There are four rooms to the cabin. The main room that you enter in is the living space. It joins through an archway to a small kitchen. Two doors branch off into a bedroom and a bathroom. Nearly every room is almost empty. My father clearly paid for his gambling addiction with his furniture. It looks like he had nothing but a mattress and this cabin to his name.

There are water stains that will need bleaching in the kitchen and bathroom. The ratty mattress needs to go. The whole place needs a dust and damn-good hoover. The windows need cleaning and there are no curtains so I’ll have to get some fitted. Furniture isn’t so much a problem as I can bring the stuff from my flat.

“My mum can do the curtains,” Bonnie says as she pulls out her phone. “And Blake can bring your things over from your place.”

Blake is Bonnie’s brother and is a Carnie. He has a huge van that will be able to fit all of my things.

“That would be great. Can you contact him please?”

She texts on her phone for a few minutes. I go back through the rooms, mentally making a list of what needs to be done.

“He says he can do next Wednesday, that work for you?”

“That’s perfect. Thanks, Bon.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” She slings her arm around my shoulders. “Here’s what I suggest. We go back to yours tonight and have wine and pizza. Tomorrow, we go straight to the shops and arm ourselves with cleaning supplies, then we come back here and blitz the shit out of this place. Sound like a plan?”

I squeeze her tighter to me. “You are the most incredible friend in the whole world. You know that right?”

She grins. “I know, but feel free to keep reminding me. Come on, there’s a quattro formaggio out there calling my name.”

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Just under two weeks later, I’m moved into my new cabin. It looks like a completely different place to how we first found it. I wonder what my dad would think, whether he would be relieved that someone is taking care of it or hating everything I’ve changed. My furniture has helped fill out the empty space and I’ve put rugs down in all the rooms to cover the old, weathered boards and keep my feet warm. Bonnie’s mum has fitted cute gingham print curtains for every window.

My houseplants have taken pride of place in the living room on either side of the fireplace and my succulent collection is dominating the main windowsill in the kitchen. The bathroom has had a makeover and the mirror has been replaced. All in all, I’m really happy with it. I even like the seclusion. There’s something really refreshing about waking to birdsong instead of honking cars and traffic. The noise pollution in the city is real. This is my slice of heaven amongst nature.

To celebrate finishing the last of the makeover, Bonnie and I go out that evening. Dressed in my favourite little silver dress and sparkly heels, I link my arm with hers and enter the club. I haven’t been in here before but according to Bonnie, it is the place to be. She came with her colleagues a week ago and hasn’t stopped raving about it.

When we get inside and my wide eyes take in the beautifully-designed space, I see why. It’s incredible.

“Wow.”

“Told you,” she says with a grin. “Come on, wait till you see this. They’ve got their own mixologist up here.”

She leads me up a set of stairs and over to a bar that looks more like a DJ set up. On either end of the bars are two screens. Bonnie taps on it and it comes to life, displaying an entire menu of drinks.

“So you can choose one of these or you can click design your own,” she explains and selects a button. “You put in what you like the mixologist creates a drink he thinks you’ll like.”

“Okay, that’s actually pretty cool.”

“And expensive,” she adds and then shrugs. “But worth it.”

A group of three women approach the screen at the other end of the bar. I’m still considering my order when they place theirs, meaning I get to watch as the mixologist steps forwards out of the shadows. He looks at his own screen where he is probably seeing their order.

I watch as he starts to grab everything he needs. His moves are graceful and precise. Under the white button-up he wears, I can see his muscles move as he works. He moves with the fluid ease of some well-practiced. His expression is one of contentment as he throws the bottles in the air, catching them behind his back and turning them upside down to drain the right amount in each glass. He’s putting on a show and I’m impressed.

I’m even more impressed by how beautiful he is. Coal-black hair is combed back from his face and long at the back. His skin is dark against the white shirt he wears. His body is broad and packed with muscle, hinting at many hours at the gym. I can’t see the colour of his eyes but if I’d have to guess, I’d say they’re dark too. It’s his jawline and full lips that are doing things for me though.

“I don’t think he’s on the menu,” Bonnie says teasingly in my ear.

I roll my eyes at her and finally order my drink. I’ve picked the ‘surprise me’ option and given him a list of liqueurs I favour.

The mixologist finishes the three drinks and lines them up on the bar to be collected. One of the woman says something to him and gives him a flirty wink. He smiles politely but I notice that it doesn’t reach his eyes. That interests me. You don’t often see a male bartender who doesn’t lap up female attention. She’s pretty as well so it’s even more surprising.

His dark eyes turn back to his screen and he reads through it. He makes Bonnie’s first, a cosmopolitan, and leaves it on the bar. I watch with interest as he gets to work on mine. My excitement grows as he selects the lychee liqueur and flips the bottle before decanting some into my glass. I put that I love lychees.

He works methodically, adding layers to the drink until it resembles a stripy sweet. Carefully, he pours the final layer on top, ensuring it doesn’t mix with the others. He finishes the drink with a fresh lychee that he fetches from the fridge below the bar. He peels it for me and rests it on the rim of the glass. He pushes the glass forward and I step up to take it. Our eyes lock and I notice his widen ever so slightly in the blue-hued lighting.

A slow smile spreads over his face and this time, it reaches his eyes.

Oh my.

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