Page 97 of Sixth Sin

“The one that keeps coming by here asking about you.” She squishes her face and snaps her fingers. “Remo? Russo?”

“Rubio,” I say, picking up a pencil and rolling it between my fingers.

Her eyes light up. “Yeah, that’s it. Rubio.”

“What have you told him?”

“Nothing. He keeps asking if I’ve ever seen you and Angel together before your little announcement. This last time he asked if you’d ever mentioned Freddy Wiseman.” I flinch at the name, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “My answer to both was no, and I left it at that.”

“Great,” I groan, slumping back in my chair while flipping the pencil between my fingers.

There’s a flicker in Milly’s eye. “He also mentioned the name Luciano Ricci.”

The pencil snaps in half. “What?”

She jumps at the sound, wrinkles creasing her forehead as she stares at me. “Dom, if you’re in trouble—”

“I have to go.” I’m out of my chair, across the bullpen, and reaching for the front door before she can catch up and ask more questions.

Try to avoid a cop, and there’s one on every corner. Try to find one damn detective, and you might as well look for Waldo.

Rubio has no problem sneaking around my shit like a side-ho, but when I try to find him to confront his ass, he disappears like a fuckboy.

Or something like that.

“Another one.” Turning the empty glass upside down, I watch the brown droplets run down the inside of the glass then disappear into the scuffed wood. Gone. Just like that. Like they were never there.

I wonder if that’ll be my legacy. When this is all over, is that all Dominic McCallum will ever be? A drop of whiskey that plummeted inside a glass cage until finally being swallowed into nothingness.

That’s fucking depressing.

“Bartender!” I yell, flicking the glass with my middle finger. “I asked for another one.”

A middle-aged blonde with inflated tits leans across the bar and wrinkles her forehead. Well, she would have if the damn thing wasn’t frozen in a Botox space-time continuum.“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, honey?”

Groaning, I scrub my palm down my face. Maybe she’s right. My lips feel numb. Good. Maybe after a few more my whole body will take the hint and fall in line. Is getting drunk the answer to my problems? Probably not. But neither is sitting at home driving myself insane wondering if Barney the Emo Bitch is sitting across from Angel sabotaging the little time I have left with her.

Fuck this.

Tossing more than enough bills on the bar, I stumble toward the door. Once outside, I hail a cab and head home where there’s more than one bottle of whiskey waiting for me.

And every one of them has Alexandra Romanov’s name on it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ANGEL

“Don’t you have to be on set today or something?”

“Huh?” Glancing up, I pause mid-type and offer a half-hearted smile. “Oh, not today. Unions—got to love them. Even Rosten can’t impose a seven-day work week on us.”

Before she can ask another question, I return to my phone, finish typing, and hit send on the fifth text I’ve sent Dominic in the last three hours.

Where are you? I’m starting to worry.

I stare at it, willing him to answer. Of course, he doesn’t. I called him twice after Violet and I got back home from Amalia, and both times it went straight to voicemail. Between the nightmares and worry, I barely slept anyway, so I started again early this morning with the same result.

It’s not like him, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong.

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