Page 15 of Sinful Sacrifice

Damien Bellini is ranked twelfth.

Leaning in closer, I zoom in on the blurry photo of him. It’s one someone took from afar, and he’s standing in front of the city courthouse, shaking hands with the prosecutor.

I spend another twenty minutes scouring the internet for all Damien news before shutting my MacBook in defeat. It seems the only way to get to know this man is to either join a mob family or owe them a substantial amount of money.

Although the second might lead to my death.

Not that it matters.

Getting mixed up with a man like him is nothing but trouble.

A direct roadway to heartbreak—no U-turns, no reroutes. Straight off a cliff.

I set my laptop back on my nightstand and am on my third yawn as I drift off.

Sane people don’t bang on doors this late in New York.

I ignore it.

I've already dodged violence once today. No, thank you on putting myself in that situation again.

I fluff my pillow and lay my head back down.

But the knocking continues.

Bang! Bang!

Pound! Pound!

“Jesus,” I shout, throwing off my comforter.

The last thing I need is my landlord evicting me for whoever is at my door, disturbing the peace.

“I’m coming,” I yell, stomping through my apartment.

I peek through the door’s peephole before swinging it open and stumbling back as Damien stands before me.

His shoulders are slumped as he stares at me gravely.

All his confidence from earlier is absent.

Gone is the pretentious suit, replaced with black sweats and a hoodie.

He opens his mouth, but no words come.

I retreat another inch when he silently invites himself inside, shutting the door with the heel of his sneaker.

“Damien—” I don’t get the chance to complete my sentence.

He cups the back of my head and madly kisses me.

It’s pleading.

Hopeless.

Breath-starved.

He guides me backward toward my bedroom, not loosening his hold.

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