Page 22 of Sinful Sacrifice

“Pippa, Damien told me to escort you to his office,” the man informs me before pinning his attention on my father. “And you need to leave, Paul. You’re officially banned from the casino. Don’t come back.”

As if on autopilot, the bald dealer reaches forward and collects my father’s chips.

Well, chip since he only had one.

“Good riddance,” one of the players mutters.

“Says who?” my father huffs at the man.

“Damien.”

“I want to speak to Damien, then.” My father crosses his arms. “There’s nothing wrong with my money.”

The man scoffs. “Trust me, you don’t want to speak with him.”

My father stubbornly stays on his stool.

“Dad,” I sigh. “Please, just leave.”

When he doesn’t listen, the man clutches my father’s collar and yanks him to his feet. My father stumbles, but the man doesn’t help him. He falls on his butt before slowly pulling himself up.

“Put in a good word for me, Pippa,” he says when he’s on his feet. “Get him to change his mind. You’re a good girl.”

God, it sounds like he’s pimping me out to play a few rounds of blackjack.

The dealer, along with the other men, pause their game to look at my father in disgust. A bodyguard with the same muscle mass as Thor approaches us and escorts my father out.

“I’m Emilio,” the man introduces before offering the dealer a head nod.

“Pippa.” I swipe imaginary lint off my shirt. “But you, uh … already knew that.” I follow him without question.

We leave the main casino floor, pass a break room filled with employees eating and watching TV, and walk through a hallway with a line of offices. Some doors are open, some closed.

Damien’s office is the third from the end.

When I step inside, it’s like I’m entering the devil’s playground.

If the devil had the world’s biggest minimalistic interior designer.

The walls are dark green, there are no windows, and a small lamp on the desk provides the only light.

“Wait in here,” Emilio orders and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I stand there, taking in the boringness for a good ten minutes. Unlike my apartment, there’s nothing personal here—not one sign of who works in this office.

No photos, no heirlooms, no personality.

All a mystery.

Like the man who works here.

Only a rich cherry-wood desk with the lamp, an iMac, and a keyboard. A black ergonomic chair sits behind it, and a deep-seated taupe couch is in the corner. I have a strong urge to snoop, but I don’t.

He for sure has cameras in here, and I want him to trust me.

I plop down on the couch, make myself comfortable, and read a book on my phone while waiting for what feels like forever.

Or two hours, according to the time on my screen.

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