| 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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Warren's new office on the top floor of the casino is the crème de la crème of modern luxury. The undulated black and gold marble entryway, with gilded light fixtures and glass ceiling, is the warm welcoming of contemporary design and masculine opulence.
Christ, I earned huge sterling, big money in the bank, but I felt like a successful billionaire—which, sadly, I am not—when bridging the airy entrance to the open floor layout of kingly magnificence.
Yes, I am worth millions because I fell into the hands of Liam Warren, who lined my pockets charitably for no reason other than love, but when it comes to net worth, there is no comparison.
He beat me hands down.
The corrupt business magnate is immensely wealthy per multiple lines of enterprise alone, not taking the institution into consideration.
At night, when good citizens go to bed and evildoers soar from the underworld, Warren is a crime lord, the head of London's most powerful syndicate, who transformed an unquantifiable amount of drugs and firearms into profits that successful people envied.
His assets, legal and illegal, amassed an impressive fortune.
I suppose his income is relatively modest compared to rival billionaires.
There is no jealousy or bitterness.
I am a strong supporter.
The more he succeeded, the happier I felt.
Warren deserved wealth after the road he walked just to eat a good, decent meal or find somewhere safe and warm to sleep. He lived on the streets, scrounged for money and survived hardship and abandonment. This man sold his soul for one shot of acknowledgement, to be seen, to be heard, to be taken seriously. He paid his dues.
Five common areas stretched across stain-resistant floors. The office, with bold yet elegant furniture and walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, had a secret door that embarked on the wraparound rooftop terrace with mesmerising panoramic views of London.
Ceiling lights, holding thirty-eight high-gloss black and gold lacquered brass spheres, illuminated the fully-furnished lounge adjacent to the polished stone rectangular conference table.
The sunken sitting room, with bespoke U-shaped chesterfield leather sofa and matching button pouffe table, is my personal favourite. I can already see it, the late-night congregation of brothers, everyone lounging around, enjoying a tipple of whiskey. Bossman will be present, with his draconian rules yet missed leadership. The son of a bitch.
Two scenarios played in my head whenever thoughts of him took over my mind. First, I hug the shit out of him because I love him like a brother, and life is boring without him. Second, I kick his ass for playing God with my emotions.
He warranted a nice little shiner.
Either way, I end up forgiving him.
Warren's new office resembled the Thames-side penthouse he once owned, without guest bedrooms and a monochrome kitchen.
