| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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Elijah Smith's failure to commit to a relationship precipitated the alternative strategy of returning to the Jones Estate, where the main house of regal magnificence accommodated the owner, his beloved son and the hired help, and the commodious outbuildings homed stone-faced security guards, unfriendly housekeepers, trained chefs, proud gardeners and service technicians.
Mr Jones' superficial standards of living separated the estate into two different worlds: rich versus poor. If you wore fancy clothes and had serious sterling in the bank, you had an invitation to the main house and a seat at the big boy's table. If you scuttled around in cheap frocks and counted pennies in your purse, you stayed in a separate building and had no business in the man's private space.
Overpowered by musings of nostalgia, I constantly caught myself looking at the main house with regret. I once lived in the art of bespoke. I had a luxurious bedroom in the East Wing with beautiful garden views and picturesque skies.
Plush cushions and faux fur bedecked the king-size bed. Seductive dark hues papered the walls. Lush rugs spread across undulated marble floors. Modern furniture with gold accents stored belongings. Private bathroom facilities provided hours of replenishing downtime.
The bedroom epitomised architectural splendour—much like the rest of the estate if you omit the servants' quarters—and it used to belong to me. It was all mine: maximised space, sensational opulence and rightful solitariness.
I lost everything overnight, thanks to the owner's scornful sidepiece: Emma, the blabbermouth who had to insert herself into other people's business and cause problems.
I wonder how much Emma gloated over the successful exclusion of Dominic's former nanny. She probably rubbed her hands together, the sly, manipulative cow.
Mr Jones threw me into the street and onto the cold floor like a worthless vagabond. And to think he attempted to kill me because of her crocodile tears.
Unbelievable.
Unforgivable.
Emma will most certainly have her comeuppance. After all, I still had a key to the woman's flat. I am only biding my time before I go around there and reciprocate emotional damage.
I longed for the day of return, where I'd roam the halls in the main house freely and easily in the absence of security and housemates. I did not belong with the cleaners, scrubbing dirty dishes, buffing marble floors and folding clean laundry. I had no reason to be in the kitchen, cooking for his lordship and the camaraderie of syndicate men.
I deserved luxuriousness.
I wanted the East Wing.
No. I wanted the West Wing.
The master bedroom.
Mabel, the wrinkled, rotund nanny, with her hideous taste in fashion and her innate prowess to abate others, had gained control of my old place and my old job.
