Crimson Night Heir (The Boston Underworld #3)

Chapter 1 – Rae

I cut the engine, hopped out, and ran my fingers over the glossy red paint. There were a few knicks from gravel, but I could easily touch those up. It could have been worse. Such a small price to pay for transporting her this way, instead of spending money I didn’t have on a closed carrier.

My uncle stepped round the drive, and his usual constipated look was overcome with a moment of admiration. “When you said you were bringing a car, I didn’t realize it was this.”

I tried not to laugh at his penguin suit. Uncle Theo was a butler by trade, and mocking him for his work uniform didn’t seem nice when he’d opened his little cottage for me to crash in and finally get on my feet.

And why should I mock him for his strange garb?

He probably thought I was the weirdo here with my black tank top and cutoff jeans that showed more leg than most people deemed respectable.

It wasn’t like my legs were bare-bare. There was enough ink soaked into the skin to count as some kind of stylized covering.

I was the one out of place in this posh world, not him.

“I would sooner die than leave her behind,” I quipped, running a hand lovingly over the hood.

Theo blew out an exasperated snort. “A car’s not worth dying over, nipote.”

My spine stiffened. Of course, he wouldn’t understand.

I bit my tongue and jogged over to the ancient pickup truck to start unloading parts and tools.

In the rush to escape, I’d left my upright chest back in my friend’s shed.

That chest weighed hundreds of pounds on its own and had cost a summer’s savings, not to mention the thousands of dollars of tools I’d acquired over the years. But those could be replaced.

My Camaro couldn’t.

“You can put those things on the back shelf,” my uncle instructed. “But I hope you understand this isn’t our garage, which means you can’t be leaving them about or spilling fluids all over the concrete.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d reminded me.

Just as soon as I saved enough money, Cherry Pie and I were getting our own place.

It was more than nice of Theo to offer me a roof—and a job—but living with strings attached was not how I saw my future unfolding.

I’d done it. I left the small town that was a dead end to young adults like me, before I got into serious trouble like drugs or unplanned pregnancies.

I broke free, while all my friends were putting down feeble roots in the red clay dirt.

But that didn’t mean I was trading one terrible future for another.

How he did it for nearly fifty years, always bobbing his head, catering to the whims of his employer, was beyond me.

Especially when the family he worked for wasn’t a normal family.

I smirked. What would he say if I asked how the mob business was these days? He’d probably pitch a fit!

The hot summer sun beat down on me as I moved piece after piece onto the slim wood shelf, that was little better than an ornament on the back garage wall. Theo watched me work, keeping his thin lips pressed tight. It would have been great if he offered to help.

He’d muss his uniform.

Oh, shit on the shingles! I was probably going to have to wear a hideous uniform too! I hadn’t thought of that.

The moment I placed the last bag of wrenches neatly against the wall—because the shelf was full and probably wouldn’t bear the weight of more tools—I dusted my hands.

“Go park that truck down in the staff parking. Tuck the trailer neatly by the trash encloser, and then report back,” Theo instructed.

Play nice, my inner voice warned. “Sure thing, uncle!”

I knew using the Italian word for uncle would please him. But while I knew a handful of words, my mother never bothered to teach me her native tongue, and I wasn’t going to start bumbling about, pretending to be something I wasn’t.

That’s exactly what you’re going to have to do to survive this place.

With a shudder, I climbed into the cab of my F-150, eased my combat boot off the brake, and crept away from the staff housing, down the winding path to the staff parking lot.

Through the trees, the coned spirals of the Big House towered high, reaching for the heavens.

The one and only time I was here as a child, this place felt like an enchanted castle from the story books I loved.

Now it loomed as proof of how little prospect my life actually held.

I hadn’t left Georgia because I was in trouble, but that was the trajectory of my future if I’d stayed.

Dirt poor, I had no choice but to accept the job offer my uncle gave me.

It mocked me with its sloping gingerbread roof.

The seamlessly stacked bricks that made up part of the facade spoke of a world of wealth and privilege.

A world that wasn’t attainable for people like me.

The only thing the gothic Victorian mansion offered was a place to serve those who ruled the world.

While people like Theo were content with their lot in life, happy to bow and scrape at the boots of the elites, the house made me boil with hate. It was the enemy, built to suppress anyone not born into the right family or lucky enough to strike oil. There was them—and there was the rest of us.

“Screw them,” I muttered, undoing the hitch. I stretched and fluffed my thick mane of curls. A warm breeze was cool against the sweaty skin at the back of my neck.

This was temporary. A few chapters of my life to reorganize the chaos and give myself a cushion for a fresh start.

Then it was arrivederci motherfuckers, and off to a place where I could breathe.

Somewhere in the country, with a little plot of land, a huge work shed for big girl toys, and no snooty-nosed Boston Bluebloods to rule over me.

***

“You’ll be responsible for keeping the sheets washed and dried in between changing,” Mrs. Sanderson said, patting the rows of bright white fabric nested in the labeled shelves. “There is always a spare set, should it need to be rotated, but we wash the old after we put the fresh set on.”

Washing sheets daily.

A waste of water.

Check.

“The bathrooms are thoroughly cleaned in the morning and tidied at night,” she continued, leading me into the supply closet and gesturing to the rows of cleaner and the mops and scrub brushes that hung on the wall.

“Sunday mornings, while the family is at Mass, we deep clean each bedroom and bathroom.”

Keep the staff from worshipping.

Damnation to their souls.

Check.

“The rest of the rooms are tidied and cleaned daily, but the deep cleaning rotation varies depending on the weekly schedule, which Mr. Romano and I prepare in advance.” The cretin blinked up at me through her thick glasses.

“Do not, I repeat, do not deviate from the schedule without prior authorization from either of us.”

I saluted her, like the commanding officer that she was trying so hard to be.

Her lips scrunched in a sneer. “Are you always like this?”

“Just trying to make things pleasant,” I said with a smirk.

“Don’t,” she clipped out.

Robot mode required. Installing data.

No fun for us. No fun for us!

Check.

There had already been a long chat in her office about appearance.

And yes, I’d been given not one, not two, but three dreadful uniforms. The first two were everyday attire, one to wash, one to wear.

The third was even more ugly, a formal uniform to be used when serving the Grimaldi family.

No makeup. Hair in a tight bun. Only small stud earrings, which meant the helix rings, the industrial bar, the rook, the snugs, the orbital conchs, the daiths, and the tagus plus the upper lobes needed to come out.

I just hoped the holes didn’t heal.

I’ll have to put them in at night and take them out every morning.

Fucking hell.

If I didn’t need this job, this brief transition to get on my feet, I would have left right after she said that.

I wouldn’t have stayed for the part where she critically peered at my hands, tutted in Italian about the unsightly ink on my hands and fingers, and then promptly decreed that I must wear gloves when serving to hide them.

The goal was to blend into the background. To move about unseen but always be available.

At five foot eleven, there was no hiding my body. But it was my tongue that was going to need a muzzle during whatever serving situations were required. How the hell was I supposed to hide that? I didn’t have a verbal filter.

But I wouldn’t have to figure that out right now.

The first required appearance wouldn’t be until Friday night, when only the immediate family were hosting drinks to celebrate a relative who’d been away for a few years.

Only three people lived in this monolithic structure, but they tended to have massive parties with a range of themes and very active social lives.

And this made having a grand house that was well-staffed a necessity.

Yippee.

“Your uncle said you knew something about hair and makeup?” Mrs. Sanderson prompted, giving me a scathing once over as we retreated to the kitchen, where a man named Franky was busy kneading dough.

He shot me a look, a smile twitching on his lips. No doubt he was looking at the mess of tight curls falling around my shoulders and silently wishing me good luck.

It was the only friendly face in the house, and my immediate reaction when I met him an hour ago was that of kindred spirit. Franky lived with Uncle Theo in the cottage; the rest of the staff commuted.

“Oh, yeah, I mean, sure,” I said with an airy breeze of my hand. “Mom was a stylist back in the day, so I grew up in a beauty parlor. I picked up a few tricks of the trade.”

Mrs. Sanderson not only visibly gasped, but she put her hand flat over her chest. “Madonna santa!”

Franky snorted.

I grinned, unable to help myself from pushing the joke further. “I can dye hair, if you get me some boxes of color. As far as styling, I know how to do an ’80 puff or a ‘90s blow out.”

Mrs. Sanderson recovered. “You most certainly will not be doing that. I see to Signora Grimaldi myself, but it’s Signorina Arabella, their goddaughter, who needs help on occasion. She’s a well-brought up girl, and both the Signora and Signore appreciate her conservative style and taste.”

The sneer in the housekeeper’s voice was a physical slap.

I need a fuckin’ drink.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be happy to help Miss Arabella with whatever she needs,” I ground out.

“You’ll be her personal maid whenever she requires it, but that won’t excuse you from your other duties.” Mrs. Sanderson seemed resigned over the fact that someone like me was going to wait on the pretty little princess.

I already disliked the girl who lived here with the stodgy old farts. The number of compliments the housekeeper dropped made me want to be sick. Just some stuck-up rich girl who I’d be forced to help.

Just grin and bear it, my inner cheerleader prompted.

I clung to the idea that soon I would be able to throw double birds in the air and speed out of this place.

“Oh, one more thing,” Mrs. Sanderson tapped on a tablet that she wore around her waist on a strap. “The household kitchen is off limits to staff. You may keep meals, snacks, or drinks in the locker room, but please remember that the family’s food is not ours.”

She peered up at me.

I bobbed my head, already planning to pilfer from the pantry whenever I damn well pleased.

“Mr. Francis will be watching,” she added with a bite.

Franky grumbled something that sounded like a ‘yes ma’am.’ It seemed even the cook wasn’t free of the witch’s torment.

“That will be all for today. You’re scheduled to report to work at five a.m. tomorrow. Until then, good day, Miss Bennett.” Mrs. Sanderson continued to tap on her tablet as she sailed out of the kitchen.

The air visibly cleared, and I drew the first deep breath.

“Cornetto?” Franky slid a tray across the island.

“I knew I liked you.” I laughed, plucking a piping hot pastry. “Thanks, mate.”

“Don’t mention it.” He rolled out the dough and continued to work. “You’ll be staying in the butler’s house with Theo and me, right?”

“Right,” I confirmed around a mouthful of the most buttery, delicious piece of feathery treat I’d ever tasted.

Heavens to Betsy! I was going to get fat living here, but Lord knew I could use a bit of filling out after living off ramen and flavored water for the last few months.

“Well, I’ll see you at home then,” Franky said, nodding to the back door in a silent command to git.

I scuttled away before I could tell him that the cottage at the edge of the property where my uncle stayed was not now or ever would be my home.