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“Suzanne Neville,” Desdemona said, almost offhand, as she entered her passcode on the iPad stationed by the front door and used the device to notify the valet she wanted her vehicle. With one last look around her condo, Desdemona slid on her dark round shades as she left her condominium and walked down the sleek and modern-style hallway to the elevators.
“Right,” Patrice agreed. “The shipment arrived—”
“Good,” Desdemona said, stepping on the lift and pressing the button for the private lobby just for the dwellers in the private residences of the building.
“Is there anywhere in particular you want me to display them?”
I could care the fuck less, Patrice.
Desdemona owned a small but very exclusive high-end boutique offering stylish and unique pieces from designers around the world. She catered to the wealthy and powerful who had no qualms about dropping five thousand dollars or better on a dress. And just like with everything else in her life, she was bored with that as well. “Wherever you choose is fine with me,” Desdemona said, as the elevator smoothly descended from the sixtieth floor to the lobby with its abstract black-and-white décor.
It didn’t particularly matter. The boutique was by appointment only, and only Desdemona met with her customers. It was Patrice’s job to collect the shipments and stock the boutique—and that was hardly rocket science.
“But—”
Desdemona stepped outside the beautiful limestone building, and stood beneath the canopy. “Patrice, there are so many moments in life where everyone gets a chance to show and to prove what they are capable of. This is your moment, Patrice. Don’t piss on it by being afraid to make a simple decision,” Desdemona said, raking her crystal-encrusted fingernails through her golden curls just as her metallic black Maserati Levante GranLusso was driven up to the curb.
Desdemona was in her mid-thirties, and Patrice was ten years her senior. If the woman didn’t learn to show initiative and claim her spotlight, she would forever be working for someone else.
“I got it,” the other woman said.
“I know you do. Bye, Patrice,” she said before ending the call as she walked over to the crossover and smiled at the young valet as she handed him a tip before sliding onto the red leather driver’s seat. She set her phone and tote on the passenger seat as the valet gently nudged for it to glide forward before slowing down and closing softly.
Desdemona turned up the volume so that Meek Mill’s “Shine” blasted through the premium sound system. She had an unspoken rule: nothing but hip-hop and trap music in her cars. During her fifteen-mile drive to the Riverdale section of the Bronx, Desdemona let the thump of the bass give her energy, the lyrics give her hope, and let herself be reminded of growing up in the nineties.
As she entered the affluent neighborhood, she turned down the sound of Cardi B’s “Get Up 10,” not wanting to disturb the peaceful vibe of the neighborhood with the pounding of her bass. She eased the Maserati down the tree-lined streets until she pulled up to a pair of wrought-iron security gates with intricate scrollwork. There were no neighboring homes for half a mile on either side or directly across the street. Mature trees and landscaped bushes around the entire property offered seclusion. She lowered the driver’s-side window and leaned out a bit to enter the security code on the keypad. The gates slid open with ease, and she accelerated forward up the long, brick-paved drive to a more than ten-thousand-square-foot brick neo-Georgian home. To the left of the motor court was a three-car garage of the same design, and to the right there were outdoor parking spots for three more vehicles. Desdemona pulled her Maserati into one of those before climbing from the vehicle and crossing the paved brick to walk onto the colonnaded porch.
Using her keys, she unlocked the front door and entered the two-story entry hall, closing the door behind herself. Stairs leading to the next floor were to her right, but she crossed the polished hardwood floors to her left to pass the small entryway leading to a powder room across from an elevator, which she rode up past the second floor to the penthouse, housing a junior suite and office. She unlocked the door, loving the heavy sound of the deadbolts sliding out of place, before entering.
The summer light beamed through the windows on the rear wall displaying views of the hills of Riverdale as she removed her sunglasses and set them along with her keys and tote on the large wooden desk in the center of the room. It was clear save for a huge vase of white daffodils sitting on the edge. The sunshine hit them, releasing their sweet aroma into the air. She began to hum a melody as she buried her face in the petals before kicking off her heels.
“Loveit,” she said softly as she opened the top drawer of the desk and removed an iPad.
She resumed her humming while tapping on the tablet to turn on the seventy-inch television that hung on the wall over the fireplace. The views from the twenty security cameras inside and outside the furnished house were soon displayed. Entry gate. Front door. Rear patio doors. Backyard and pool. All living spaces inside the house, including the spacious chef’s kitchen. The wine cellar, exercise room, media room, and bedroom suite in the basement. Each of the bedrooms on the second floor and finally the in-law suite on the first level with its own private side entrance.
Desdemona smiled at the sight of the naked man lying in the middle of the king-sized bed stroking his own erection. Denzin Anderson lacked for nothing. Good looks. Quick wit. Disarming smarts. Hard physique. Long dick.
She used the iPad to activate the intercom system in Denzin’s suite before setting it on the desk. “Punctual as ever,” she said, her voice sounding raspy and soft to her own ears.
He locked his deep-set black eyes directly on the camera in the corner. “Disappointment is not my MO,” he said.
“No, it isnot,” she agreed with emphasis, sitting on the tapestry Parsons chair behind the desk before she removed a cash counting machine from the deep bottom drawer.
Denzin chuckled.
She walked over to the fireplace and hit a small latch hidden behind a carved leaf. The side panel popped open, revealing three shelves. Each was stacked with money. Her courtesans dropped her share of the cash money they collected from consorts into her office via the mail slot on the door. She hid the money in the fireplace. She removed all the bundles, carrying them in one arm back to her desk.
“Security alert. Front gate.”
Desdemona’s eyes shifted to the television. She recognized the face of the woman behind the wheel of the nondescript electric blue car: Jann Loomis, a beautiful twenty-something sous chef.
“Is that her?” Denzin asked.
“Right on time,” Desdemona replied, using the tablet to unlock and open the gate because all visitor security codes required she do so.
“What’s her name again?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
