Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
She’s coy, and while cunning is called for in our lives, Delta has a moral compass. Most of the time anyway.
“Thank you so much, dear. We’ll see you soon.”
“Bye, Ms. Milano.” I smile as I speak, my tongue falling out the second I end the call and my bedroom door opening at the exact same time.
My spine goes rigid, eyes narrowing as my heart rate spikes, but then Saylor, the “lady’s maid” of the north wing, my wing, steps in, a stack of towels piled high in her hands.
She jerks to a stop, her light eyes widening as they meet mine. “I’m so sorry. I thought you had left already, or I never would have—”
“Saylor, it’s fine.” My shoulders ease. “I didn’t expect you is all, and why are you carrying all that? I told you, you don’t—”
“Please.” She yanks them back when I approach, so I pause. “Let me do as I’m assigned. It makes everything easier.”
The way she says “easier” and the quick break in eye contact doesn’t go unnoticed, but I simply nod, and then what she said hits me. “Why exactly did you think I was gone?”
Her features contort—no one likes being a rat. “Jasper called about twenty minutes ago, saying I could start my tasks early if I wanted. He thought you left with Mr. Donato and his wards.”
Bronx rises, dark, thick curls bouncing around her slender face. “Of course he did.” She looks to me. “I wonder where he got that idea?”
Jasper is the house manager here, the one who divvies out the tasks and is in charge of making sure life at Greyson Manor flows as smoothly as the silk curtains draped along each and every window. Unlike the coarse embroidered draperies in the Greyson suite at The Enterprise, something I didn’t discover until it was lowered over my eyes. Even the sash was roughly textured, the golden threading scratchy to the touch, almost as coarse as the fingers that tied it in place …
Memories of last night flash before me, still fresh in my mind, as I run the tips of my nails over my lips.
Fingers of a felon, if I had my guess. I bet he comes from chaos. The depiction of death represented in bold ink along his skin is hint enough if the healing of busted knuckles and the small nicks and scars along his skin didn’t make it obvious all on their own.
Yeah, I bet his world is as dark as his ink-black hair.
Could it be as fucked as mine?
He did have his man roll the bloody and beaten one down a hill, so … maybe?
I didn’t spot any family crests on his skin, and his rings were inconsequential, random shapes of personal expression he likely picked up—or stole—here and there. His car, while the VIN was scratched and the license plate removed, was nothing special and held no markings. He didn’t utter a key name or code word to reveal who he was or that he was aware of exactly who I was.
We are at The Enterprise, the “event venue”—or so the description reads when you look it up online—we established a few years ago as a power move. A new venue allowed us to play the game, offering suites and a sense of superiority to the families of the surrounding areas, who believe they are just that. Important, superior, worth more than they actually are. Like the mayor of the bordering town and the governor, the widowed philanthropist, and the district attorney, one for his wife and one for his mistress—those last few come in handy more often than my father would like.
The point is, it’s not just the Greysons and those attached to us who are in attendance this weekend. The suites are open to our strategically chosen “equals,” as well as those we allow to acquire tickets to the concert. That’s a lot of possible entry points.
It’s not like the nameless intruder worked his way into Greyson Manor, knowing exactly who he’d find inside. Father hasn’t mentioned a breach, and Bronx isn’t fixated on her computer screen, typing away at hyperspeed.
If he was spotted or captured, I would know it, but he wasn’t.
So, if he is a gangster, he’s an insignificant one.
“Damiano needs to rein in his wards.” Delta pulls me from my thoughts when she speaks of the bothersome brothers, the newest pains in the ass, to join us here in the manor. “They did this to Sasha last week,” she mentions the dedicated maid of her wing. “The poor girl and what she walked in on.” Delta’s skin pinkens at her own memory.
“What did she walk in on?” I tease, knowing the possibilities are endless with her and her two boyfriends. They’d do absolutely anything she asked, and they’d do it well.
Delta only smiles as she grabs her purse off the vanity and heads for the door. “The point is, those Greco boys are causing trouble, just as we were warned they would. They’ve become a handful.”