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Pulling out his Glock, he placed it underneath and pushed the drawer closed. He hurried to the entrance to greet his guests. The elite of the city strolled in, men and women, with deep pockets and the desire to add to their collections. Ready to mingle, Bobby hesitated as a white limo stopped at the curb. In his head, he had ticked off everyone on his client list. This must be the person Lucy added. A uniformed chauffer hurried to open the rear door. Long, slender, bronzed legs emerged from the interior first. She moved with purpose, wasting nothing and came toward him.

He observed the expensive sapphire blue dress, the beaded shawl draped over her shoulder. She held out her hand. His heart hammered as he shook the hand of the most stunning woman he had ever come across. She slid her hand away and walked past him. Long hair, the color of maple syrup spilled down her back, making her as captivating from the rear.

He caught the light scent of her perfume and fought the urge to breathe deep. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled before proceeding to a portrait by the far wall. His eyes followed each precise movement. Inside, one of his clients stopped to chat.

Glancing at her from across the room, Bobby fumbled for words. How could one woman have such an affect on him? At the end of the gallery, Carmela plucked a glass of champagne from a silver tray held by a waiter before settling onto a bench by a painting. Bobby tried to converse with several people before moving toward her.

He caught her eye and smiled. Her eyes traveled the length of his body before resting on his face. She patted the bench. Come, sit, and tell me about this artist. Bobby detected a slight accent. It made her speech even more alluring. He brushed away the hair falling over his right eye and sat beside her. She wagged a red polished finger at him. Tell me how you discovered him. Warmth spread up his cheeks. He cleared his throat and explained how he first met Wesley. Her eyes focused on his, while her thick, dark lashes, fluttered seductively.

She was magnetic, as if she had a force field around her. A sudden prickle in the pit of his stomach made him draw back. Unsure what it meant, he forced a smile and got to his feet. He noted the bright red stickers on most of the title cards. It seems Wesley has almost sold out. Before he could walk away, she pointed to the painting in front of her. Bobby reflected on her choice. Bright fiery slashes of red mixed with brilliant blues lit the canvas.

The most vivid work in the collection had drawn her. She smirked and opened her purse. I will be in town for the next day or two. Call me tomorrow and let me know when it is ready. She rose, handed him the empty champagne glass and made her way to the front of the gallery. His eyes lingered on her curves until she slipped out the door. Bobby noticed a change in the air. He took a breath and studied the card, running his fingers over the embossed black lettering of her name printed on a white background with a phone number below it.

A simple card. Too simple for a woman so complicated. Bobby stuck the card in his pocket and tried to turn his attention on his clients. But the image of Carmela Santiago lingered and along with it the feeling his life was about to change. Carmela slipped into her robe and settled herself at the table in the Presidential Suite of her hotel.

She lifted the gold-domed lid before her and smiled with pleasure. Room service had done a good job. Perfectly cooked eggs benedict rested on the plate. Her appetite ravenous, she took a bite and let the creamy, lemon taste of the Hollandaise bathe her tongue. Her mind drifted to the previous evening. He had no idea how much their pasts linked. Bound by murder and deception. Nick would have kept names, dates, and places to himself. A good ghost would do everything to protect his family.

The more they knew, the more it put their lives at risk. Biding her time was the right decision. Almost six long years should make Nick believe her threats were no longer of consequence to him or his loved ones. She sipped her coffee and frowned. Tall, with a square jaw, angular cheekbones, and full lips, he was one handsome man, but his ice-blue eyes and the way a patch of his thick dark hair drooped above his right eye caught her attention the most.

She found these things particularly sexy. The focus must remain on avenging her father. With her plate empty, she pushed away from the table. She showered and dressed, selecting tight-fitting black pants and a white silk blouse.

She left her long hair loose and her feet bare. A pair of gold hoop earrings and a matching bracelet complemented the simple outfit. While she dabbed perfume behind her ears and at her wrists, her cell phone rang. The piece you purchased last night is ready. Her free hand formed a fist at her side, her fingers clenched. I can do that.

See you in about two hours. Within minutes, they arrived and removed her breakfast tray. Opening her laptop, she busied herself checking on deliveries at the restaurants she owned by speaking with each manager. She wrote a check for Bobby, before going to the bar and pouring a glass of sparkling water.

A soft buzz sounded. Smoothing her hair, she hurried to the door, but caught herself, and stopped. Seconds ticked by before the buzzer rang again, and she opened it. He wore a black tee shirt and black jeans. A dark grey, wool blazer set off a maroon-colored scarf draped around his neck. The artwork, professionally wrapped, stood against the wall behind him. She stepped aside, and he entered carrying the heavy frame.

She pointed to the far wall next to a tall window. Bobby placed it against the wall while she drifted to the bar and put the glass of sparkling water down. Choosing a bottle of tequila, she held it up. I need to get to the gallery. He hesitated a moment.


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She poured two shots and gestured toward the sofa. Bobby seated himself, and she handed him his glass. She slipped beside him, shifting her body, letting her knee brush up against his. She raised her glass. They drank and set their empty glasses on the coffee table. And at such a young age. He removed his scarf and swiped his hand through his hair. His cheeks flushed. For a moment she thought he might bolt from the room. I studied art, built up a clientele, and here I am.

She fiddled with one of her earrings and smiled. She picked up a strange note in his voice. Her question made him uncomfortable. Not wanting to push things too far yet, she rose and grabbed the check from the table. She stretched out her arm.

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Bobby got up and reached for it. She drew her hand back and moved closer, her face now inches from his. The sharp scent of his cologne hung between them. She studied his face, the slight curve of his mouth and the dark stubble along his jawline. With no sign of retreat, she slipped the check into his palm. He folded it in half and placed it inside the pocket of his blazer. I wish all my transactions were this easy. His stare matched hers in intensity. A hint of amusement played in his eyes. She sensed his self-confidence had returned causing her to feel bare, exposed.

She took a step back to collect herself. I would be your only client. I want you to help me build the most magnificent collection in the world. He backed away and shook his head. She placed her hand on her hip. He draped his scarf around his neck. I owe them my career. Carmela gave him a small pout. If you insist on keeping your other clients, I guess I have to live with that. Bobby fished out his wallet. He placed a card in her palm. She glanced at the card and followed him.

He tugged at his sleeve and checked his watch. He gave a half-shrug. She bit the inside of her cheek to curb her rising irritation. She put on a fake smile. Helps with the frequent flyer miles. He was making fun of her. Bobby opened the door and stepped out into the hall. She watched him saunter to the elevator. He nodded at Diego as the doors slid open and disappeared inside. Diego walked toward her.

Carmela shook her head. He had ruined her afternoon with his nonchalant attitude. It shattered sending tiny shards across the carpet. Disregarding the broken pieces, she walked to the window and viewed the shadows playing against the tall skyscrapers. Later, those concrete giants would brighten the night, their lights glittering like jewels.

Its inhabitants would come alive to dine at famous restaurants and take in the Broadway shows. She had this entire great city at her feet, but still, melancholy engulfed her. A slow, steady breath escaped her lips. She glimpsed it in his eyes, sensed it in his body language. Her sour mood lifted and her mouth edged up into a smile. Bobby would come around.

Tuscan sunlight filtered through the umbrella pines and across the patio. Surrounded by flower boxes and hanging baskets bursting with color, Nick inhaled the sharp scents of rosemary and basil from the garden below. A wind chime swayed back and forth, its melodious tinkling flirted with the breeze. Comfortable in his jeans and polo shirt, he settled into the cushions of the wrought-iron chair, he lifted his shirt and tucked his 9mm into his waistband behind him. I only see agony. Mondays and Wednesdays were gory, bloody days. They were Drivers Education days. After school let out, Rachel would sit in a darkened room with other Sophomores and Juniors, including the German boy, Rand, and view the graphic footage of car accidents that was supposed to scare her into driving safely for the rest of her days.

She saw bodies decapitated by steering columns, heads bashed into red mush by dashboards, limbs shorn and oddly laying in shattered glass on the road side. I never, never should have been driving. He had hands after all—fingers intact—and so did she. He seemed to stiffen, then relax, and Rachel felt him turn and look at her.

But she stared at the screen, captivated, disgusted.

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Paramedics pounded a needle into the bloody sternum of an accident victim. They beat at his stopped heart with fists. The camera fled upwards, away from the scene and into a darkness gouged with the strobing shadows of red and blue from the emergency vehicles below. The lights came on and Mr. Bobs, the Drivers Ed. He blew on the whistle and Rachel and Rand and forty or so other students gripped their ears. Everyone seemed to agree that Mr. He had a bony, blade-like face and wore the sort of small goatee that was popular now with the Our Lady boys and made the Juniors and Seniors who could grow one look slick and a little Satanic, though it just made Mr.

Bobs look boyish: A year-old adolescent with a pointy spot of hair on his chin. He was horny, too. Rachel was sure that he stared at her breasts during her Wednesday driving lessons, though he pretended to be looking at her hands on the wheel, her feet on the pedals. Eyes closed and heads down on your desks. Every last one of you. The guests, the priest who christened you, the family friends, the aunts and uncles. I want you to take a good long look at her. Maybe the earrings you gave her one Christmas. I want you to be inside her head and feel exactly what she feels as she weeps over your coffin.

Do it, people! The fact was, Rachel told herself, that Mr. Bobs was just sharing his torment with them. He was a freshly injured man and not the loud, hard soldier he pretended to be as he stood in front of the class. His wife, Mrs. McGuan, the then Our Lady principal. They had fled the school in a bustle of controversy and were said to be living together in California somewhere. Rachel refused to think of these things. Instead, she pictured inside the warm, velvety interior of her head absolutely nothing, a dark void over which she saw the needle of the clock sweeping round and round as she tried not to let Mr.

You have a nice figure. I can tell you do behind all those clothes. But nobody else can. Nobody can see how nice you are, Sweety. Rain water would fall from his matted bangs. She would not cry. Not one tear. Not one, she promised herself. Bobs said. Bobs, stupid Mr. I hope you all now have a small idea of the pain you could cause.

After the gory films and after the stupid lecture, Rachel and Rand walked outside Our Lady and sat over the grass still holding hands. Gross was a word Rachel had taught him just yesterday. Rand was a fast learner. What Mr. Bobs told us to imagine. Rand was picking clumps of grass out of the ground. I want to be burned and put in a jar. What is it called in English? Then he seemed sure. No flowers. And yours? Lots of flowers. But she was already thinking about something else. If you could just do that, you might learn something.

Not about driving, but about death. Calm, hugely round eyes. Definitely scared. A hot wind that smelled of rain and fresh asphalt rose up. In the distance a thunderstorm darkened the sky. Fall in Tucson often meant sudden, violent afternoon storms. He looks at me in the car during driving lessons. Her mother had always worried about certain kinds of men and had carried this when she was still well enough to leave the house. If he tries anything.

Tear gas. That seems. Poor, worried Rand, she thought, lifting his hand and placing it on her cheek where its warmth seemed immense. His hand smelled of pencil led and wood shavings. A school-room smell. The smell of a smart boy, a fast learner. A boy who could never die, who could never just be ashes in a jar.

She kissed him right below the knuckles then—their first kiss—and felt the small, rapid panic of her heart. His face was red and he was smiling. They felt the first large rain drops—one, two, three—big and wet and warm before it began to pour all at once and they had to run for shelter. But Rachel did hate Mr. She hated him for his black mind and for undressing her with his eyes as she drove. Bobs were alone together. Bobs ordered. He had a deep robotic voice. Eyes on the road. A huge purple Cadillac in front of her said AMJAM on the license plate and the pulsing bass of hip-hop reverberated from its insides.

Bobs asked her. A kind of music? The Clash? The Stones? He turned the radio off. He moved in his seat. Something was strange, something was wrong, and all Rachel could do was look at the road, watch the light change from red to green, and think Please, please just let him go away as she accelerated through the intersection. He was nervous. She just drove. He cleared his throat, a terrible, snotty racket. She did it then—slammed the brake pedal to the floor with all her might. Bobs screamed. His glasses flew off and hit the windshield.

Cars roared by honking and a huge Tucson Transit Authority bus screeched to a stop right behind them. The bus driver shook his fist at her. Bobs yelled. Rachel started to drive again while her teacher took deep, steadying breaths. His face looked naked and smaller without the glasses. For crying out loud, kid, why are you smiling? It was a combination of his fear, his panic, his smallness, and the fact that he was right—they had almost died. No one liked her pictures. It was true: their vision was dark and they seemed to record a large ratio of accidents and mishaps at the school sporting events.

But Rachel could hardly be blamed. At the first practice of the varsity basketball team, James Wood, the center, went up for a dunk and came down funny on his ankle. Rachel had been there behind the camera, so she snapped the picture of him cradling his right arm and hopping on one leg for the sideline. Marcosian said, looking at her photographs at the quarter year meeting of the photography staff.

Marcosian was a short man with thinning, ashy gray hair and small, quick eyes of a freakish, bunny rabbit blue. And such? Rachel hated words at times. Marcosian said. They were just there. They found me. They selected me. They seemed true. At home, she showed the photographs to her mother who felt well enough that afternoon to sit up in one of the living room armchairs and watch through the window as the afternoon storm darkened the sky. Her mother actually jumped in with her clothes on. It was scary. But Linda was okay afterwards.

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Marcosian thought. Marcosian then, the small man digging in his little gray beard for insights. She pictured spraying the tear gas in his blue rabbit eyes, making him claw at his face and weep. Marcosian wants pictures of victory and cheering. Maybe your father needs to take you shopping. Her mother sat up in her chair and looked at her. Rachel did this.

Carol smiled. All the same, she loved him, his round, soft face and mostly bald head, loved him so much that it had been hard for her when she first went to high school to find the skinny, bony-faced boys with all their hair at Our Lady at all attractive. But his eyes were red. Everyone in this house did their crying alone, and Rachel guessed that she liked it best that way.

She dropped her photographs on the table in front of him. I love sports.

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Her father took a sip of his drink and stared into it as he spoke. When Rachel needed to cry, she retreated after school to the far stall in the basement girls bathroom, which was almost always empty. Once locked into her stall, she cried out loud and heard her voice, mournful, hollow, angry, amplified in that strange, cold echo chamber. Rachel hated public rest rooms, but they seemed like the right place for grief: dirty, semi-private, shameful places smelling of chemicals and urine.

And on the scratched, aqua blue door of her stall and the dividers on both sides of her, she read dozens of other disgusting predatory markings naming girls who were either fictitious or had come from the then sister school, St. And as Rachel sat on the toilet urinating or as she stood, her panties pulled down around her knees, changing her pad, she felt a little sick to her stomach. Bobs, his glasses, his thin, sucked-in cheeks, the fact that he had touched her, if only on the shoulder. I had a few boyfriends in my time. And Rachel herself, reading these strange messages, had wondered what it would be like to sit down on a cock and hold it deep inside her.

So it was hard for Rachel to understand why she did what she did on that Wednesday afternoon after her father had asked her to see a shrink. She left the girls room in a hurry then, without looking back and without washing her hands. That afternoon, Rachel kept the small, black canister of Mace close at hand in her right front pocket during Mr. She remained attentive and always aware of where Mr. He had been all business since then, as he was that afternoon, repeating his usual axioms. The best offense is a good defense and Anticipate, anticipate, anticipate and Always keep two car lengths between you and the driver ahead and, in conjunction with that last one, Fences make good neighbors, people!

Bobs told Rachel, who had just made a sloppy turn in front of a tailgating Mustang. She saw his foot poised over the brake pedal on his side of the car. He was cautious, maybe even scared when she drove now. Bobs making the sounds of a sick animal as Julie Turly blew him, as Julie Turly reached up and grabbed the little silver whistle around his neck and pulled on its yellow chord until he came. Check your blind spot. Observe the five-second rule. She stepped out of the car and Jason Brown took her place. So she stood on the curb and watched the blue Ford Taurus with the funny yellow beacon on its cab that said Student Driver turn the corner and drive out of sight.

Male slut. Bobs is a male slut. But everything was silent. The houses were shut up behind their lava rock front yards and no one walked on the sidewalks. Rachel had a secret. At least she had that. She wondered, though, when Mr. Bobs might drop her off last again, when he might ask her about her taste in music, her quietness, her loneliness. She almost hoped he would ask her these things. And if he did, Rachel would be ready for him. Bobs, every disgusting, horny inch of him.

She missed his accent, his awkward speech rhythms, his dependency on her as a sort of dictionary. Now she was dependent on him. She wanted to understand things. They just looked like people, like Americans to her. Taub said. It would be raining, drizzling on two very old ladies. And there would be no flowers. Taub and all she knew would count for nothing then. Rachel looked at Rand, his soft, smart eyes, wet and bent funnily beneath the lenses of his glasses, as he forked a bite of potatoes into his mouth.

I Enjoyed this movie for the action, some comedy, and a lot of great Bro love. They are so tight. So I would say give this one a go anytime, but it's not for kids; unless you just leave them unsupervised all the time at home anyway, then what do you care right? There is a lot of the bad word "See You Next Tuesday" in this though it is from the UK, but there is a lot so be warned. Having seen all of the previous "Essex Boys" related films, I watched this with a degree of trepidation.

Surely there wasn't going to be yet more previously untold material to surface here? Thankfully this is a fictional spin on the infamous story of the Rettendon murders. It packs a punch in parts and contains some humorous moments along the way. Although the acting leaves a lot to be desired in parts it is still worth watching as it contains a few unexpected twists throughout. The four new breed Essex Boys reminded me of the yuppie drug dealers in "Lock Stock I found that the film passed quickly and kept my attention throughout.

Although it is not the grittiest of films I would still say give it a watch to all those who like British gangland films. Review: This is your typical East End wannabe gangster movie about 4 drug dealers that mess with the wrong people. It's connected to the famous Range Rover killings, which they have made quite a few English movies about, but it starts off well and then it goes downhill.

The acting Is just like all the other English gangster movies that you have seen, and the storyline is full of drugs, sex and violence which we have grown to expect from movies in this genre.

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I stuck with the movie to find out what was going to happen with the 3 brothers and the drug maker, and there are a couple of twists that make it interesting, but it's nothing amazing. It seemed quite low budget and I couldn't help thinking that the boys should have left the country from the time that they knew that someone was after them or when the cops started to put pressure on them.

They didn't even try to hide, which was a bit strange, and they just stayed in there flat when they new that people wanted to murder them. Anyway, it's watchable but not one that you will rewind. Round-Up: I usually get ticked off when I see the usual faces in these English gangster movies, but this movie really needed some of the old tough nuts that we have seen many times before.

Billy Murray is stuck in jail throughout the movie so you hardly see him at all. The 4 main characters just seem like a bunch of kids trying to play a big mans game, and they just get too big for there boots. To be honest, I don't know why they didn't get murdered earlier on in the movie because there not really underworld material. RatedVforVinny 4 June This is a completely fictional film about a new string of Essex Boys. Enjoyable in parts but it's not as convincing, or as realistic as the original. The Movie starts off though with a thrilling, almost comedic bank raid in the style of Guy.

R's 'Snatch' but the rest is somewhat of a let down, well compared to the first picture. Fictional as it may be, it is funny, harrowing and violent. The four guys just don't care, run rings around the Police and carry on even though they are major suspects. Top actor Billy Murray provides the background whilst in jail for assassinating Tate, Tucker and Rolfe.

With so many Essex Boys movies out there, most of them from the Jonathan Sothcott production company, this is quite a new take and welcoming. I liked it. The only saving grace is the presence of gangster film regular Billy Murray playing a convict who narrates a story, but what a trite story it is! A bunch of extremely stupid and unpleasant young men pull off a heist before trouble catches up them, but this is the kind of film that was made for a fiver and had change left over from it.

The performances from the non cast members are appalling; everyone overacts, and nobody's asked to tone it down. The script is undoubtedly the worst thing and the police interrogation scene, which repeats the 'c' word over and over again for around ten minutes, the height of crassness. Overall, this seems to be a celebration of idiocy, and it's hard to imagine anything much worse. Unbelievably poor johnsonchris 14 May This has to be one of the worst films ever made on British gangsters.

Anyone who gives this a high score must be a friend or family. Those of you who gave it a 10 please go out and get a life. Do not watch this film. This film is so badly acted and cast. These guys are supposed to be Scary gangsters but its more the the cast of the in betweeners deciding To sell drugs. Complete over acting to the extent that there just a bunch of daft cockney lads.

The link which you find out at the end, to the landrover killings is Just ridiculous and the acting at that point goes from really bad to To just silly silly silly and then a huge chunk of extra silly. I wonder if these people Have ever acted before?. Perhaps the director just grabbed a camera and suddenly Turned round to his friends and said let make a movie today. This film is absolute Brit trash. If you secretly have a grudge against some one you could them back get your retribution by befriending them, inviting them round to you your house, put this film on and lock them in the room.

How ever you d have to make sure your TV is in some kind Of protective cabinet or else they will simply smash your TV. Maybe Im being a bit harsh. Making films is not easy as you think but the again this is simply dreadful. One of the reviews above gave this film 10 out of Im presuming that is some kind of typing mistake. When buying online from - er - a certain large online retailer, I often first view the bad product reviews.

The content of that 1 star review gives me a chance to judge the relevance of the comment. It's often a similar story with IMDb. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, but shouldn't that opinion be reinforced by some knowledge of the subject? Judge then yourselves, reviews with phrases such as "I watched 10 minutes of this".

Would anyone take a review of The Godfather or Shawshank Redemption seriously if the reviewer had only seen the wedding scene up to Johnny's arrival, or Andy's arrival at the jail? If you didn't watch, your views are irrelevant. Anyway, I did watch all of EBR, and yes, it wasn't an epic movie, but the acting of the leads was good, and the story was OK. Billy Murray was as you'd expect perhaps Alan Ford was unavailable. It is not too serious and the plot sort of makes sense but has holes in it and could have been improved.

The characters have no back story, there is a twist to the prisoner but all the characters never seem to have any emotion other than anger. However it is a bit of fun and if you try to enjoy it for what it is then you will like it up to the ending. The writers clearly felt they had to remain faithful to the Essex boys story, which made for a completely dis satisfactory ending in which all of them die but it doesn't matter because we have no idea who they are, except that they have killed and robbed to get where they are and the slightly engrossing film beforehand just seems like a pointless tale because it leads to nowhere.

Overall it is poorly written and needed some character development which had none of. Not to mention there is some suspect acting. I was expecting a follow on from Essex Boys or Bonded by Blood but was intrigued to see Bill Murrey telling a story about the new young breed of gangsters. The young lads seemed arrogant and loud, no respect and was surprised that being drug dealers,they had no "muscle" to back them up when it got on top. The acting was a bit wooden after the earlier excitement of the Bank robbery.