Page 65 of Darkest Sin

“No. No, no. Please don’t do anything like that,” I tell him. “I was put into a really shitty situation, and I met somebody who was able to help me out. He kept me safe, but as I said, I’m home now, and it’s over, and I’d really love it if you’d be able to look past the last few weeks of radio silence and remember that you actually really loved having me work at your bar.”

“Shit, Lara,” he says, gripping the back of his neck. “Of course you can have your job back. I just . . . You know you can always talk to me, right? I know I’m your boss and we’ve never really had that kind of relationship, but I care about you, and if you’re going through something or someone’s hurting you, I just need you to know that you have options. I can offer you a safe place to crash or give you cash for a ticket out of here, just say the word.”

A fond smile stretches across my face, and I scold myself for the rush of emotion that floods me. “Thank you,” I murmur. “I appreciate that, but really, I’m all good now.”

“Alright, have it your way, but that’s an open offer. There’s no expiry date on that,” he tells me, reaching out and gently squeezing my shoulder. “Now get back there. The bar’s been kicking my ass for weeks. I really don’t know how you do it.”

Thank fuck for that.

Getting straight to work, I head to the back to clock in, and before I know it, I’m back behind the bar and falling into routine. It’s a busy night, and the customers keep coming, making it easier to keep Killian off my mind.

My new security team occupies the corner booth, getting curious glances from the customers, knowing without a doubt they don’t fit in here in their imposing black suits and buff frames, and considering the way they watch me like stalkers in the night, it doesn’t take long for the other staff to figure out why they’re here, but thankfully they don’t ask.

Despite ordering their own meals—a meal paid for with a black card with the name Killian DeLorenzo on the front—I continuously bring them more fries and soda, doing my best to keep them comfortable despite their continued objections. But if they’re forced to be here just to watch out for me, then I’ll do what I can to make this easier for us all. Hell, I might even consider putting a hold on throwing food at them from my bedroom window. Though there’s no doubting the rush of joy that floods me when the sauciest meatball splatters right across their windshield, only for the idiots to put on the wipers and smear the mess everywhere.

It’s a little after ten when I deliver another round of sodas to their table and notice the way they both stiffen in their booth, their gazes locked on the woman walking through the door.

Whipping around, I take in Monica in her ridiculous designer outfit looking like some over-done Beverly Hills side chick. “Ma’am,” my new head security dude says, a stark warning in his tone. “Just say the word and we’ll escort her out of here.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, swallowing the fear as it tries to rear its ugly head. She’s already destroyed me in so many ways, stolen my dignity, and taken out a hit on my life. She doesn’t get to have my fear too. “She’s not going to try anything here.”

“Ma’am,” he repeats. “I highly suggest you step away and allow us to handle this.”

“She’s not running me out of here. She’s already cost me the one thing that matters to me. I’ve got nothing to lose. Not anymore.”

Before he gets a chance to warn me again, I walk back toward the bar while watching her like a hawk, but it doesn’t go unnoticed the way my new security team creeps in—one of them casually with their hand on the gun at his side and the other is already on the phone, probably filling Killian in on this little situation.

Making my way behind the bar, I grab a glass and fill it with the nastiest beer on tap, making sure to give it the biggest head of froth possible while spilling it all down the side of the glass. She watches my every move, and as I put the nasty beer down in front of her, I hold her stare, not finding her nearly as intimidating as she hopes.

“You lost?” I question.

Monica scowls at the beer in disgust before raising her gaze back to me. “This is your life, huh? The one woman who could make the great Killian DeLorenzo feel something, and this is what you are. He was right to let you go. You’re beneath him. You’re scum.”

“Did you come all the way out here just to insult me?”

“I had to see for myself that he’d truly taken you out with the trash. You know how the rumor mill works, you can never really trust it until you’ve confirmed it for yourself, and it looks as though the rumors were right. You’re back where you belong.”

“Wonderful news all around,” I mutter, my sarcasm thicker than ever before. “I suppose that means you can take your freshly done manicure and get your ass out of here. Lord knows what filth was on that stool before you sat your fake ass on it.”

“You truly are a disgrace, Chiara.”

“Says the woman who ordered a hit on me,” I say, reaching for her drink. “You done with this?”

Her face scrunches and she goes to push the sticky glass away, but I pull on the small coaster beneath and watch with fascinating delight as the glass tips over, sending a wave of beer cascading over the edge of the bar and right into her lap.

Monica screeches, throwing herself to her feet. “You fucking bitch.”

“Oh no,” I gasp, holding my hand to my mouth in fake shock. “Is that a Givenchy jacket? You better hurry and get that to the dry cleaner before it stains.”

Her face turns beet red, and as cheap beer rushes off her, she steps closer to the bar, her horrid stare locked on mine. “You’re dead. You better watch your back, bitch.”

“Who, me?” I ask. “What are you going to do, Monica? I’m out. You can’t touch me without causing a scene. It’s too messy and you know it. The police will be crawling all over it, and now that you’ve made a public declaration in an establishment covered with surveillance footage, all arrows point to you. But sure, give it your best crack. I’ll be right here waiting.”

Monica clenches her jaw and whips around as she grabs her designer bag off the bar. She goes to storm away, probably angling for something dramatic, but I call after her instead. “Oh, Monica,” I say in a sugary-sweet tone. “It really was lovely seeing you again, but keep in mind that while I might be out here working some lousy bar, one call to Killian is all it would take to end you. That’s assuming he doesn’t already know and is waiting for his moment to strike. Exciting, isn’t it?”

Her face drains of all color, and for a moment, I fear I’m going to have to scrape her off the dirty ground, but she quickly recovers and whips around before hightailing it out of here.

One of my security guards—Travis, I think his name was—follows her out, hopefully making sure she actually gets in her car and leaves, while I remain behind the bar, cringing at my boss as he gestures toward the mop and bucket. But despite the mess I’m left with, nothing has ever been so satisfying.

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