Page 12 of Psycho Sinners

“What the hell does that even mean?” I could picture her shaking her head. “Got the link?”

“Reading it now.”

There was an image at the top of the article of an all too familiar bar burning, and I arched a brow at the headline.

“Faulty gas line?”

“Exactly. I dunno if it’s dumb luck or what, but holy shitballs, Scar.”

"Faulty, my ass," I scoffed, scrolling through the article for any other hint of what truly went down. The bar—the one I torched in a fit of rage—was now just another tragic headline. At least no one was hurt. Although, I’d already known that.

"Scar, this is good. They think it was an accident."

"Right, because I'm just that lucky."

“Did you tell Cristian about it?” Her words were sharp like glass on concrete.

“Yeah, probably.” I scanned the floor for my underwear, not finding any sign of them.

“Scar, he’s one of the Silvestri brothers. Hell, all three of them stay up there sometimes. Please tell me you’re headed for the door?”

“The Silvestri brothers?” The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it.

"Out. Now, Scar. You’ve gotten in bed with the damn mafia."

“Fuck.” Her words hit me like a freight train, and I snatched up my shirt from the floor before struggling into my jeans, the sickness in my gut and the pounding in my head making it one hell of a mission.

“Exactly, I swear, you’re a magnet for trouble.”

"Story of my life," I retorted, rubbing at the bruise blossoming around my throat. But somewhere beneath the sarcasm, fear gnawed at my insides. Naomi wasn't one to panic. Not since she'd traded her vices for velvet ropes and VIP rooms.

“Won’t lie, the man knows how to fuck,” I muttered as I yanked my shirt on, my bra nowhere to be seen either. Her unease and panic were carving into me now.

“Yeah, so we know, he also has a tendency to leave a damn mark on the girls he brings through this place,” she hissed. “Are you okay?”

"Yeah, I figured that out. I’ll be fine." I pressed my fingers against the tender bruises blooming on my skin like morbid flowers. "He and his ink made quite the impression."

“Look, I know we dance with the devil often, but this is more. They’re really bad men, and I hope to God that they just leave you the hell alone after this.”

“I’m leaving now.” Adrenaline had started its jittery dance through my veins, along with the stumbling from all the booze threatening to make a reappearance after last night. So much for fucking a stranger with a savior complex. Nope, I had to land myself a damn made man.

Lucky me.

“Keep me on the line,” Noms ordered as I headed for the door, my roiling guts threatening to hinder my movements as the sickness burned the back of my throat.

“Fuck, Noms, I’m gonna be sick,” I mumbled as I keeled off from my path to the door and headed for the kitchen sink.

I heaved my guts up, last night’s mistakes splattering in the sink as the shakes set in.

Yep, I’d gone too damn far, my body trembling horrendously.

“Scar, you okay?” Nom’s voice was distant as I bent over the sink, struggling to catch my breath as another wave of nausea rolled through me.

“No, sick,” I gasped out to the phone on the counter before I heaved again.

I waited a moment, making sure my stomach had settled before I turned on the faucet, washing away last night’s booze from the sink and rinsing my mouth out.

My stomach was still a mess, but I felt slightly better.

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