Page 174 of Sinful Blaze

PASHA

I should be heading home. I texted Daphne an hour ago to tell her I’d be there for dinner.

But that was before Mak called with updates on Brennan.

“Guess who’s been having lunch with the senator?” He texted a few photos to me to answer his own question. “We have it on good authority that they’re going out with him and Mrs. Brennan for dinner and drinks tonight.”

I nearly snapped the steering wheel in half.

“Keep them busy,” I snarled. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”

I should send someone else to do the dirty work for me. One phone call could have me home in time for dinner while someone else wreaks havoc on my behalf.

But when the gates to the Hamish estate appear in my headlights, I know I can’t pass this off to anyone else.

I need to spill this blood with my own two hands.

I do text Daphne my apologies. Something came up. I’m going to be late. Don’t wait for me.

Then I pop the glove compartment open and grab my favorite pair of leather gloves. The lug wrench is just heavy enough to do some damage without leaving a trace.

I’m about to leave the car when my phone buzzes.

DAPHNE: So it begins

I frown. What?

DAPHNE: You being out late. Business to attend to

DAPHNE: I’ve seen the movies

DAPHNE: I did my homework

DAPHNE: Just remember to leave the gun and take the cannoli

One corner of my mouth tips into a smirk. I’m tempted to remind her that Italians and Russians are night and day. But I don’t want to ruin her fun.

PASHA: I’ll bring one home for you.

As much as I’d love to banter with her all night long, I have a job to do. So I put my phone on silent and shove it in my pocket.

Then I get started.

I’m sure, at one point, the security around the Hamish estate was impeccable. I vaguely remember attending a few dinner parties here and seeing professional security detail patrolling the grounds. Back then, Stewart Hamish could afford it.

I would know—I wrote his paychecks.

Now, though, things have changed. The back door doesn’t have a keypad, so it’s easy work picking the lock and slipping inside. Whatever security system they once installed is no longer working.

The first swing of the tire iron busts open a glass display case showing off some knockoff antiquity they probably paid too much money for. My suspicions are confirmed when I pick the pottery up and find the sticker along the bottom.

Made in Vietnam. Pathetic.

I turn and hurl it into the decorative mirror on the far wall.

I’m not worried about seven years of bad luck. Associating with Stewart Hamish was already the worst luck in my entire life.

I wreak a path of destruction throughout the main floor of the house, venting all my anger and frustration and sense of betrayal into everything the Hamishes hold dear. I barely remember his wife, Ophelia, but what I do recall is how infuriating she was even when I thought I could trust Stewart. Always clutching her jewels, preening her self-absorbed sense of elitism.

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