Page 175 of Sinful Blaze

Hell, she tried pimping off her daughters to me more than once. I refused each time, determined to avoid getting tangled up with a woman like… well, like that reptilian nightmare with false lashes.

Come to think of it, this place is missing something.

Children.

Pictures of them. Paintings of them. Evidence that Stewart and Ophelia had any to begin with.

I drag the wrench along the banister as I climb up to the second floor. If I remember correctly, Stewart’s office should be somewhere around here.

“Ohhh, Stewie!” I call out. “Where you at?”

I crash through each room to knock shit around. I play baseball with a set of crystal wine glasses in Stewart’s wet bar and toss his desk drawer contents around like it’s New Year’s confetti.

“Fuck with me once, shame on you. Fuck with me twice, you’re a dead man.”

We gave them everything. Money. Cars. Connections. Prestige.

In return, he got my father killed.

And now, they have the balls to turn Senator Brennan against me? To fuck with my contract?

“Dead” is the best they can hope for.

But luckily for them, they don’t seem to be home. Pity.

I come across a display of three Faberge eggs. Lining them up on Stewart’s desk, I smash them one by one, leaving a rainbow of shards arranged prettily across the wood. I toss my business card into the mix.

Subtlety is for the fucking birds.

I’ve done enough to convey my message, I think. But on my way down, a peek into a room has me stopping dead in my tracks.

The hell is a baby’s room doing here?

A baby girl, by the looks of it. Everything is bows and lace, hues of pink glimmering in the moonlight streaming through a far window. The crib is halfway assembled and there’s hardly any toys or basic supplies in the sparse storage, but it’s clear that someone is expecting.

It can’t be Ophelia. She’s way too old to be popping out babies now, and I doubt she has the time or patience to handle any.

Maybe it’s for their daughter, Melanie? She disappeared from the spotlight after I had her publicly ruined. It’s not a stretch to imagine she’s probably a single mother now, needing Mommy and Daddy’s help because she can’t stand on her own two feet.

Too bad, sweetheart. Mommy and Daddy won’t have any feet soon, either.

Something tugs at me. It feels an awful lot like guilt.

Maybe it’s the sight of the crib, not so different from the one I bought for my own baby girl. A daughter who could, at any time, fall victim to someone else’s fury just because she’s related to me.

I sigh. Smashing shit is losing its luster.

I pick up my phone and dial. “Hey, Sofi. Yeah. Do me a favor and find Melanie Hamish’s current address. I think it’s time to pay her a visit.”

66

DAPHNE

Dominik glances at me in the rearview mirror for the fifth time since we pulled out of the garage. “You sure you wanna do this?”

“Yes. No. I mean…” I sigh and slump in my seat. “I have to do this. I have no choice.”

“You could always just call them. Text. Keep that safe distance.”

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