Page 7 of The Wages of Sin

“Of course, sir,” Rose said, instantly contrite. “I don’t know what I was thinking. But if you see her, can you send her my way?”

The man gave a curt nod before shutting the door in her face.

I opened my mouth to thank him, but before I could make a sound, he pressed a finger against my lips, stopping me.

It was a common gesture, but feeling his warm skin against such a sensitive part of me still felt surprisingly intimate.

Heaven help me. If this was my reaction to one simple touch, maybe I really was starved for contact.

The client inclined his head toward the door, signaling that Rose was still listening on the other side. We both remained motionless and silent for another few seconds until, finally, the sound of her footsteps retreated down the hall.

Only then did his hand fall from my lips.

I let out a long breath.

“Thank you,” I said in a whisper.

He nodded.

“But…” I stopped myself, remembering his intense reaction to Rose’s question.

“But what?” he prompted, seeming perfectly calm with me.

Maybe it was a mistake, but I decided to risk it anyway. “But why did you help me?”

He looked at me for a long moment, his deep lapis eyes seeming to study my face, almost as if he wasn’t entirely sure of the answer himself.

Eventually, he said, “Because you’re right. I can’t have you lose your job. Not yet.”

Then, without further explanation, he opened the door and peeked out into the hall.

“All clear,” he said before stepping back and allowing me to pass.

This time, I didn’t hesitate.

I rushed out of his bedroom before Rose could catch me sneaking out.

I should have felt relieved. Just a minute ago, I was afraid of losing my job...or my life. But now, a brand new question was burning in my head, one that I had a feeling would haunt me for weeks.

What the hell did he mean, not yet?

Chapter Three

DORIAN

Iwasn’t used to visitors—not in my home or my life.

In the five years since I’d purchased this corner apartment in one of the historic co-ops across from Central Park, I had only welcomed five people inside. Two were my adoptive brothers, Gabriel and Matteo D’Angelo. Another was our now-deceased father, Giuseppe. And the last two, of course, were the pair of cleaners sent from the agency, Rose and Helen, who came every Tuesday morning.

Not that the women had any idea who I was. Not who I really was.

They only called me “sir” and referred to me as “the client.” That was how I liked it. The less people who knew my true identity the better.

The better for them, that was.

Most people, especially those involved in the New York underworld, went out of their way to avoid meeting me face-to-face. The superstitious ones didn’t even speak my name, afraid that saying it out loud might magically summon me like an ancient demon. And as ridiculous as that might sound, I honestly couldn’t blame them.

After all, I knew better than them all the things I’d done: all the houses, hotel rooms, and offices that I’d been the only living soul to walk out of; all the unsolved murders filling the NYPD filing cabinets that I was responsible for; all the funerals; all the blood on my hands.

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