Page 52 of Sinful Sacrifice

He works his jaw, unsatisfied with my answer. “Men like your uncle always get what they want.”

Behind his words, he’s holding back another detail.

He’s just as much mob-affiliated as my mother’s family.

That means he also gets whatever he wants. He made that clear when he forced me out of the casino and into my apartment.

The coffee churns in my stomach. I no longer want to have this conversation. I want contract and Cernach to leave any part of my vocabulary for the rest of my life.

“Did you ban my father from the casino?” I ask, changing the subject. As much as I want to pull my legs to my chest, tucking myself together, I don’t want him to think something is off.

“I did,” he confirms as if it’s no big deal.

“Why?”

“To prevent him from accumulating more debt with us. I settled his loan this time, but I won’t do it again. Vincent won’t be as nice to him next time, and it was my way of preventing him from using you again.”

“What if he goes to another casino?”

“That’s beyond my control.” He watches me closely, studying me, as if worried I’ll make the mistake of helping my father again. “Don’t you dare do it again, or I’ll raise goddamn hell.”

“Why do you care, Damien?” I whisper, my throat tight.

“If something happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I can’t lose anyone else.”

My voice remains a whisper. “We hardly know each other.”

His jaw twitches, and he doesn’t blink once as he says, “I don’t need a certain timeframe to know what I want. It took me less than an hour to know I wanted you—and not just to fuck. When I said you were mine, I didn’t mean that in a temporary way. Marriage or no marriage, there’s no getting rid of me. You are mine, and I’m yours.”

17

I’m not in the mood for coffee.

But I am in the mood to see Pippa.

Before today, I’ve never stepped foot inside Brew Bliss. I’m not a fan of coffee shops or fancy drinks. I find them too small, too hipster, too evasive. The tables are too close together, providing no privacy.

Further proving my point, the place is packed when I walk in. Within seconds, I overhear two conversations. One about the weather and another from two Wall Street bros, arguing over who spent more on coke this year.

I stand in line like the Good Samaritan I am not. While I’m usually not one for patience for standing in lines, I’m okay with this one. It gives me an excuse to watch Pippa work as I wait.

Jazz music plays around us as she moves behind the counter with ease, like the graceful dancer she is. Two other employees are with her, not counting the girl taking orders, but Pippa seems to be in charge.

When it’s my turn, I step to the register.

The cashier, whose name tag reads Sasha, flashes me a red-lipped smile. “What can I get for you today?”

I peer up at the menu board—something I should’ve done long before, but I’d refused to look away from Pippa. I’m surprised someone didn’t call the cops on my ass for looking like a crazed stalker.

I point at Pippa. “What’s her favorite coffee?”

When I grabbed coffee for us before, she requested coffee and creamer, nothing special. But I also went to the closest place that had coffee options matching that of a gas station.

Sasha blinks at me. “Huh?”

I point at Pippa again. “That barista. What’s her favorite coffee?”

Sasha whips around to see who I’m referring to. “Pippa?”

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