Chapter 56 Slithery Gang

• Xavier’s knuckles whitened against his booster seat. “Mummy—is that father motorcade?”
• “Unlikely.” I snapped my compact shut, though the aftershave notes cutting through the Bentley’s recycled air—vetiver and crushed ice—were unmistakably Rafayel’s. “Your father considers Range Rovers frightfully nouveau riche.”
• Raymond’s eyes locked onto the rearview. Without preamble, he wrenched the wheel left, the Bentley’s tyres screeching across Belgravia’s cobbles as he gunned the twin-turbo V8.