| 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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A proliferation of swanky vehicles gridlocked the estate, yet the house appeared deserted, with no sign of activity or movement. I had cars hidden around the back of the house, employees strategically stationed, and decorations confined to where the main event was due to transpire.
Inactivity is misleading, though. If I went further afield, to the prohibited halls of locked chambers, I would find the once forbidden ballroom bedecked in luxuriousness, guests in abundance and a mellifluous stretch of instrumental music.
Edith, the manager of household affairs, greeted visitors with rosy-cheeked politeness, whilst Iris and Lilith, the identical brunettes in slate-grey button tunics, black tights, laced loafers and loosely weaved braids, proffered flutes of sparkling, delectable champagne.
Dominic had the grandest time trick-or-treating. In the most adorable Halloween costume (a naughty minion), he knocked on doors within the area, accumulating an entire bucket of freebies, which he shared with his father for dad tax; I might have experienced a momentary sugar overdose as punishment.
We returned to the estate shortly after. I showered in record-breaking time and dolled myself up for excitable shenanigans whilst Mabel fixed Dominic a bottle of warm milk.
Nate purchased a new suit for tonight's occasion; therefore, I purchased a new suit for tonight's occasion, down Savile Row, in the heart of Mayfair, London, where the famous street in menswear and art of bespoke tailoring prevailed.
As I had to stand out in the crowd, make a fashionable statement and look better than Mr Competitive, I selected a quintessentially British style suit, double-breasted jacket buttons strategically placed, paired with slim-fit trousers, an essential waistcoat, a white Marcella cotton shirt, double-cuffed and secured with cufflinks, designer leather shoes and the vital bow tie...Well, a pre-tied bow tie, to be exact. Nobody has to know.
My chosen attire is synonymous with handsomely debonair. Nate does not stand a chance of winning the fashionista vote—or any other besuited male, for that matter. I made stylishness seem effortless: confident, sophisticated, legendary and iconic. I am a good catch. A rare find, if I do say so myself.
"Mr Jones." Mabel is by the master bedroom doorway, holding Dominic to her hip. "Are you talking to me or yourself?"
"Myself." Spraying Creed cologne on my neck and wrists, I admired the man in the mirror. "Should I wear Jaeger-LeCoultre or Patek Philippe?"
She eyed both watches. "Patek Philippe."
I did as instructed.
"It's time for Dominic's bath." Yet, the bespectacled woman made no attempt to leave the bedroom. "May I ask a question?"
My eyes found hers in the mirror. "You may."
"It's about the water system," she said warily. "A member of security has to adjust the valves before I can run cold or hot water in the bath. I checked the shower, and it works fine..." Her body shifted weight from one foot to another in uncomfortable silence. "Is there a reason behind bizarre restrictedness?"
