Page 2 of Sinful Sacrifice

People claim to suffer nightmares about him.

Say he’s done inhumane things.

Prosecutors complain no one will testify against him.

And now, I might be his next victim.

He shuts the door, bringing with him the scent of menthol aftershave and amber cologne as he steps closer.

“Are you Vinny?” The words stumble from my mouth as I lay the poker chip on the table.

“No.” His callous voice sends a chill through my body. It’s deep, cautionary, and cold as ice. “What’s your name?”

“Pippa.” I immediately regret telling him this.

I should’ve lied.

But my gut tells me he’d know if I did.

He snaps his long fingers. “Last name?”

I hesitate.

“Last name,” he stresses, raising his voice.

“Elsher.” I nervously bite the inside of my cheek.

“Ah, you’re Paul’s daughter.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“I’m here to see Vinny.” I slap my purse on the table, pull the cash from it, and smack the bills down. “My father instructed me to give him this.”

Ignoring the cash, he casually slides his hands into his pockets. “Vinny isn’t here, so you get me instead.” He smirks.

“And you are?”

“Damien.” He rests along the edge of the table, too close for comfort, but I’d be stupid to push him away.

He collects the money, flicks through the bills, and holds up the stack when he’s finished. “Is there more money in that purse of yours, Pippa?”

I gulp, shifting in my chair and debating on offering him my purse, a lung, and the McDonald’s Beanie Baby collection my mother passed down to me.

Not that he’d get much from my purse. Some loose change, tampons, and a wallet with zero-balance gift cards.

“My father will have the rest of your money by the end of the week,” I lie, knowing damn well he won’t.

He scowls, staring me down. “Why couldn’t your father come here and deliver this pathetic amount of cash himself?”

“He didn’t want you to kill …” I pause to select a better choice of words. Don’t want to give the man any ideas. “Er … hurt him.”

“He’d rather I kill … or, er, hurt you?”

I draw in a shaky breath.

Damien drops the cash on the table before sliding off the edge of it and standing in front of me. “What if I don’t want the money?”

“That’d be”—I clear my throat—“very kind of you.”

But what does he want instead?

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