Page 96 of Jaded Princess
25
CRIME SCENE CLEAN-UP
The Saxons’main townhouse was located in Williamsburg, an area one wouldn’t think a crime lord would move into, but with the growing gentrification and the draw of trendy storefronts, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to think Gordon Saxon and his fourth wife converted a piano factory into a brick-lined, industrial-styled, four-story mansion.
I stood in front of its black farm-sized double doors, which I was pretty sure once belonged to a horse stable but was probably sold for ten times as much, I couldn’t deny Gordon his style sense. Or, perhaps his new wife. Either way, to walk up the modest poured concrete walkway sanded to appear years older than it was, one would never believe such a property belonged to an infamous crime king. A rock star perhaps, or an A-list celebrity wanting prime location but few paparazzi.
I was delaying. It was obvious, since my finger hovered near the doorbell but wouldn’t press, my mind instead providing real estate critique that I probably siphoned from reruns ofMillion Dollar Listingthat Verily loved watching.
It was better than what waited inside.
I would have loved to case the property, peek through windows and figure out where Theo was being held and Trace and their father held court. But cameras had already spied me, and it was no wonder, since such a fashionable home would be outfitted like a fortress.
After a breath, I pressed the bell.
No echoing ring was heard or annoyingding-dong. These walls, doors, and windows were soundproofed. Unconsciously, I squeezed the necklace. My only hope, the last weapon to bring the Saxons down. All of them.
No one would hear my screams.
The door swayed open, and a butler of sorts appeared. He was dressed in slacks and a polo and resembled more of a professional wrestler than a server. He held no tray, smiled no greeting, but made sure his holstered gun stuck in his belt was on full display.
He said nothing, merely waiting for me to step inside. Once I did, hethunkedthe door shut behind me. The bustling city outside disappeared. Emergency sirens couldn’t break through the screen of silence engulfing this home.
“Stand still,” he said.
Arms out, I allowed the frisk, front teeth clutching my lower lip as his calloused hands grazed the exposed skin of my forearms, my thighs. He paused at the denim between my legs, lingering much too long, but moved right when I was going to break his face with my knee.
When he untucked my shirt, I shoved away. “Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I dare, honey. You’re in Saxon territory now. Shirt up, or I’ll tear it off you.”
I tasted blood from my teeth cutting into the vulnerable tissue of my lip, the metal fear scoring across my tongue. “No.”
“No?”
His hand snaked around my neck too quickly and I gulped air, fingernails scratching at the girth of his tattooed forearm.
“Then we’re doing it the hard way.” He said it with such ease, like he lifted weights with girls half his size on a daily basis. Using his other hand to lift up my shirt, he felt around, met my bulging stare, and squeezed a breast with a half-smile. If I’d had enough saliva, I would have spit in his eye.
I gasped when he suddenly dropped me and opened my windpipes. I doubled over, gagging.
“You’re clean,” he said, off-hand. “Follow me.”
I steadied my gait as I followed him down the wide hallway with exposed ceiling beams and industrial lights. It wasn’t the mansion I imagined. I pictured Gordon Saxon encased in velvet and antiques, a cigar dangling from his lips as he remained comfortably seated on a tufted red chair bordered by intricate wooden carvings. Maybe a Doberman on either side, ears pricked for the muttering of their master’s “attack.”
The butler/wrestler stepped aside to allow me entry into a main room, the dark paneled wood underneath my feet unchanging from the hallway to the room. Cream couches—the types with very stiff cushions and not much comfortability—were the focus, and on one, sat Gordon Saxon.
I hadn’t seen him since one brief night at a charity event two years ago. Heard talk of him during my first days as a cocktail waitress, and certainly understood the threat of him years after. Gordon Saxon was a forewarning that greeted me before I entered other houses, sat at other tables. There wasn’t a poker room that he didn’t know and didn’t know him. The Saxons ruled the underground, and ensuring I stayed away from his rooms wasn’t enough. Standing here, I wondered when I ever thought it would be.
Gordon was incredibly good-looking. Not sallow or pot-bellied like I’d envisioned most mafia bosses to be. For someone who stayed out of the spotlight and relied on the murmuring of his name as enough threat, I’d pictured a goblinesque, short, chain-smoking old man with streaked white hair. A navy suit costing more than five years of cocktail waitressing narrowly disguised a soft gut, but otherwise, his frame was trim. Muscled. Tailored to a multi-millionaire.
“Scarlet Rhodes,” Gordon said through carved, pale pink lips rimmed with salt-and-pepper stubble. Gordon’s sandy hair, tinted with gray, was swept back in a singular wave, long enough to curl at the edges and give me the impression that this was how Theo would look if he grew out his hair. His cheekbones jutted out under addictive blue eyes, an exact match to Theo.
I hovered in the archway, unable to speak. My lungs had bunched up and settled behind my collarbone, shriveling the instant I locked stares with this man.
“I’m surprised you came,” he said.
I rubbed at my throat. Images of Lauren’s torture—Theo’s previous girlfriend—centered themselves directly in front of my pupils. I hadn’t been witness to it, but I’d heard enough.