| 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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Brillantina is a playground for filthy rich millionaires. The exclusive nightclub in Central London boasted titillating stage shows and incredible displays that left me breathless and, quite frankly, speechless for the vast majority of the night.
It amazed me how the wealthy people of our world lived. I could only dream of such magnificent splendour and majestic impressiveness.
Hell, most days, I barely had money to pay the utility bills, and that's been my life for as long as I can remember. I was not born into privilege. I was not lucky enough to fall into a pot of gold.
No, I had to learn how to survive on a pittance. I only experienced absolute wealth via television, watching movies like Trading Places, The Great Gatsby and The Wolf of Wall Street. I lived vicariously through the fictional world of actors and actresses.
Traditional music played over the mezzanine floors of drugs, alcohol and pleasure-seekers. Hypnotic snake charmers, talented burlesque performers, little people and professional contortionists entertained partygoers. Beautiful models danced in giant champagne glasses of slippery bubbles and purple-hued lights.
The club is a theatre of salacious varieties if you catch my drift. Mary told me to be open-minded whilst stationed in the never-ending queue of flamboyant socialisers, not that her fair warning could have prepared me for the controversial style of nighttime entertainment.
Premium bottle service is obligatory for spendthrifts.
A strict dress code is non-negotiable.
Whatever happened in Brillantina stayed in Brillantina. It is scandalous, private and for our eyes and ears only. Not that I had anyone to gossip and spill the tea with. I have exhausted friends and family. Hell, these days, everybody hates me. I am an outcast, and I am entirely blameable. Incessant bitchiness bit me in the ass.
Brad's big heart, beating with selfless love, abounding passion and the kind of thoughtfulness that turned jaded women into hopeless romantics, is the only reason I made it past the uncompromising, musclebound doormen earlier.
If it weren't for the new stylish wardrobe of luxurious fabrics and designer shoes, I'd be at the end of the street, ostracised by the club's security detail, ordering a mixed-meat kebab slathered in a shredded salad, hot chilli sauce and pickled peppers. Later, a wine bottle in a brown paper bag and a rustic-looking park bench.
Shit. Now, I am hungry.
Thanks to the man's impeccable and unrivalled taste in fashion, I forewent back alley takeaway food and walked straight through the main door dressed in a black embroidered couture short dress with chain motif sparkling elements and ankle-strap high-heeled shoes that guaranteed an unwanted visit to the emergency room for toe injuries or sprained ankles.
Mary's connections helped. I don't know how she became good friends with the club owner. Let's keep it real, I have no idea who my sister truly is or what she does with herself these days, but her close relationship with influential businessmen is the sole reason behind the six empty bottles of Armand de Brignac Champagne that are on the table and the overpriced glass flutes of effervescence in our hands.
