e·lite
/əˈlēt,āˈlēt/
noun
noun: elite; plural noun: elites
a group or class of people seen as having the greatest power and influence within a society, especially because of their wealth or privilege.
• in which the darkness-loathing heiress meets t...
"Remember, sir, great successes come with great sacrifices."
Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
December 27th, 1925
Lord Grosvenor's office in his London home was the most opulent office Tommy has ever beheld.
The office was the kind of workspace he strives to have; as of right now, his offices in the House of Commons, London, and Birmingham are only three-quarters of the Duke's.
The office itself had high ceilings with columns adorning the four sides of the cubicle room. A desk on one side of the room near the windows, and on the other far side lies a lounge where the lord could relieve his fatigue if he wished to do so.
Cabinets full of liquor and cigars lie near the double mahogany doors, facing high bookshelves filled with his journals, memoirs, and educational modules lined neatly. Organized by colour, Thomas noticed.
He had been invited to the Duke's home in Mayfair to discuss business before the Duke's departure to Birmingham that weekend. With tremendous consideration, due to the Italians everywhere, Tommy complied. He came the day after he met the Duke's wonderful daughters and fosters. The Duke has explained he couldn't move to Birmingham with his children due to his business in the House of Lords.
Thomas knew that already, at the explanation by a certain daughter of his yesterday. And his own eyes and ears that have reported such things to him. Irene Grosvenor, or should Tommy say, Lady Irene Grosvenor had undoubtedly left an impression during the span of their introduction.
An image that certainly left flashing memories in Tommy's head, leaving him restless at nights. Curious. Just now, he tried to recall the memory, only to make him smirk in the process.
That brat of an heiress was undoubtedly something else.
"So, I heard you've already met my daughters and foster kids." Hugh Grosvenor looked into Tommy's eyes. "And judging by the call I received last night, I can only guess they were hellish. They didn't sound anything near happy."
"Happiness is subjective, Your Grace-"
"Please, call me Mr Grosvenor."
"As I was saying, Mr Grosvenor. Happiness is subjective. We simply took the necessary precautions that someone would take when they're chased around by an Italian mafia, looking to sever their heads."
"Your men kidnapped them from the train station, Mr Shelby. If you weren't my business partner, I'd have you hanged by now."
Tommy's eyes slimmed like a cat's, "Again, precautions. Your daughters were seen asking around about where Mr Shelby is. What if they bumped into an Italian, eh?"
