Page 13 of Darkest Sin

Letting out a heavy breath, I brace my fists against the table and lean into them. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. That’s what my grandfather always told me, and I never truly understood it until he was murdered in cold blood. Before his body was even cold, I took over as head of the DeLorenzo Mafia family. Now, I understand it as clearly as if the words had been engraved on my skin. It’s a lonely life here at the top, and with the lives of so many in the palm of my hands, I can’t afford to put even one foot out of line. One wrong move, and this whole family could burn to ashes. That much was proven last night during the raid at my warehouse. While it wasn’t my family members who were slain, they were my workers. They were my responsibility, and last night, I failed them. The blood of those twenty-three workers is on my hands, and I will make this right.

Having too much to get through, I scoop my coffee off the dining table and cringe at the circle it left on the hardwood. I’ve always been a fan of a good coaster, only whenever I need one, there’s never any in sight. I suppose it doesn’t matter. The second I walk out of here, my housekeeper will sweep through and leave the room looking untouched.

Moving through my home, I find myself passing the main staircase that leads up to the private suites, right where Chiara sleeps, and I feel a pull, urging me to go check on her. I pause, my gaze sweeping up the long staircase, and I immediately berate myself. I shouldn’t feel this way. She’s just some random woman who I happened to find locked in a cage at Ezekiel’s auction. She isn’t anyone special, certainly not someone who is worthy enough for me to take time away from work.

Anger at my lack of self-control surges through my body, and I push myself to keep walking toward my office, but a movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I pause again, watching Rohan reach for the front door and pull it open just in time for Sergiu to stride through, not bothering to spare a single second to thank Rohan for opening the door.

“Cousin,” Sergiu booms as he stalks through my foyer and meets me in the middle with two manila folders tucked under his arm.

He claps me on the back, making a move to greet me, but I hold back, not having the patience for it today and needing answers about last night’s bullshit raid. “Have you got a name for me?”

Sergiu nods. “I’m waiting for the call to come through any minute now,” he says before handing me the manila folders. “In the meantime, I come bearing gifts. Everything you requested on your new . . . pet. And the names and contact details of the workers killed in the raid last night.”

I nod and flip through the list of names, not recognizing any of them, and yet each one seems to sting harder than the last.

There are a million more questions I need to ask to follow up on the conversation we had last night, but I move on to the next folder instead, and right on top, I find a photograph of Chiara. She must be only a few years younger here, maybe nineteen or twenty. Her cheeks are full, and her green eyes are so bright, a stark contrast to the girl I met last night. One thing is for sure, when she’s not plagued by fear, starved, or covered in grime, she’s fucking gorgeous.

My attention is piqued, and I flip through the pages inside, quickly scanning over her birth certificate and the copy of the missing person’s report that was filed two days ago when she failed to show up for her shift at the bar she worked at. “I trust you’ve taken care of this?” I ask Sergiu.

“Just about,” he says. “The report mysteriously went missing from police records, but this was filed a few days ago, so I can’t guarantee that there aren’t physical copies on a desk somewhere, but with her name scrubbed from existence and her birth certificate suddenly gone, we should be okay. I’ve got men keeping a close eye on that though.”

“Good, and—”

Sergiu’s ringing phone cuts me off, and as he reaches for it and glances at the caller ID, a familiar excitement flashes in his eyes. He holds up a finger, telling me to hold that thought while he takes his call. “Speak to me,” he says into the phone.

I listen to his call, keeping a keen eye on my cousin as he takes in the information that’s being shared, and the second his lip quirks up into a wicked grin, I know we’ve got exactly what we need.

Sergiu ends the call with his gaze locked on mine. “We got ’em.”

“Call a meeting,” I tell him, excitement drumming through my veins. “We’re going hunting tonight.”

7

CHIARA

It’s well into the afternoon when I wake from yesterday’s exhaustion, and while I’m still a little groggy, I feel well-rested and ready for my day. I’ve never woken up feeling so refreshed in my life. Could it be the expensive bed and the fancy Egyptian linen? Or . . . My gaze shifts to the glass of water that was left out for me last night.

No, it couldn’t be. There’s no way he slipped me something again. First in the car and then again in my drink. This is bullshit. How stupid could I be to have fallen for that? I should have known better, but I was so exhausted and confused when I came to bed last night that it didn’t even occur to me not to trust the glass of water that had been left on my bedside table. God, I’m an idiot.

Throwing the blankets back, I trudge out of bed and across the room to my private bathroom before closing and locking the door behind me. Turning to the vanity, I face my disheveled reflection and barely recognize myself. My hair is a mess, there are deep circles under my eyes, and despite only being gone from my home for three or four days, I look as though I’ve lost weight.

The body harness still decorating my skin makes me feel dirty. Wanting to put this bullshit behind me, I grip the thick leather and yank it off my body, loosening it to speed up the process. It’s not easy, and the complicated straps quickly send me into a blind panic. I need to get it off and burn the fucker. I need to be free of what it represents, but I don’t think I’ll ever be free again.

This Romanian jailer is never going to let me go. I’m never going to be blessed with a life of my own. I will be at his beck and call until he decides I have nothing left to offer. When that day comes, all I can hope for is a bullet between my eyes to end this life of misery.

Forcing myself to take slow, calming breaths, I focus on one strap at a time until the leather harness and thong are discarded in a messy heap on the bathroom floor. Finally able to breathe just a little easier, I walk into the oversized shower. I step to the side as I turn on the taps, then hold my hand out under the stream of water, waiting for it to warm.

After scrubbing my hair and washing the filth from my body, I tip my head back under the cascading water and let the soothing warmth wash over me. I have to get used to this. I have to somehow find the beauty in this world. Otherwise, I’m going to live my life in misery, and that’s simply unacceptable. I have to learn to embrace these changes, but it’s going to take time and a shitload of patience—patience I simply don’t have.

Stepping out of the shower, I quickly dry off before wrapping my towel firmly around my body and running a brush through my hair. Glancing down at the filthy harness, I let out a heavy sigh. What the hell am I supposed to wear? There’s no way I’m putting that thing back on. I’d die before sinking that low again. Hell, the second I can, I’ll be burning it to a crisp.

Wandering back out to my room, I step up to my closet and open the door with a gasp. It’s fully stocked with clothes, but how?

Walking deeper into the closet, I scan over the variety of items. Sun dresses, formal dresses, night dresses. There are leggings, jeggings, and jeans. Workout clothes, bras, and underwear. Full briefs right down to tiny G-strings. Every single item of clothing a girl could need for every possible occasion has been catered, and all the tags say they’re in my size. But the biggest question is, when the hell was all this done?

He really did put something in my water. I would have known if someone was delivering a truckload of clothes into my room. It’s not a quick job. They’re all organized and hung on expensive-looking hangers. This took someone hours.

I wonder if Mr. Romanian Jailer will shrug it off or be honest if I ask. Is he the type to be ashamed of his twisted actions, or will he own it?

---