Page 86 of Sinful Sacrifice

My eyes are glossy. And just as I suspected, my cheeks are mascara-stained.

The ballet is over. The dancers took their bows and left the stage ten minutes ago. I stayed in my seat for another five minutes, collecting myself.

Tonight wasn’t only a show.

It was an experience.

One I’ll never forget.

Damien shifts our still-connected bodies to face the stage. I hear low chatter as a man carrying a circular table appears onstage. Two others follow him, a chair in each one’s hand.

He interlaces our fingers, and the lighting is hazy as he escorts me along the perimeter of the stage. This feels so off-limits.

A gray-haired man, wearing white gloves and a black tux, stands at the base of the stairs leading onto the stage.

He stands up straighter when we reach him. “Good evening, Pippa and Damien. Did you enjoy the show?”

I’d be bouncing on my toes if I wasn't in heels. “It was amazing.”

With the amount of adrenaline pouring through me, I’ll be up for hours. It’s like someone fed fifteen espresso shots through my veins via IV.

When the man offers me his hand to assist me up the stairs, Damien stops him to do it himself.

Geesh, he needs to put out a bulletin that he’s the official Pippa helper. I’m starting to feel rude, ignoring men’s help.

My heels clack against the stage as we walk across it. An entire table setup is now in the middle, complete with a white tablecloth draped over the table and two chairs across from each other. A candle, smelling of fresh-cut roses, flickers in the middle.

Damien helps me into my chair, waiting for me to adjust my dress and get comfortable before taking his. As he sits across from me, he runs his hand along his tight jaw. He’s doing his best at hiding his stress to make the night perfect for me. For us.

As I smooth my napkin along my lap, I find my mother’s warning about him so wrong.

Yes, Damien is dangerous. A murderer. A man on the FBI’s watch list. Yes, I googled that. But his name doesn’t belong on the list with the other cliché assholes who serve the mob.

Men who chose their own self-preservation over others’ lives.

Men with egos so large that they kill anyone who threatens it.

He’s nothing like Cernach. Corruption might flood his veins, but those veins still flow into a noble heart.

“I can’t believe you did this,” I say, choking up again.

I don’t even want to know how much of a hot mess I look like.

“Baby”—Damien’s tender tone resurfaces—“if it makes you happy, believe me, I’m doing it.”

Two servers approach our table. One holds two salad plates and squeezes forward to drop them between us. The other pours champagne inside our glasses while reciting tonight’s menu. Every item—from the appetizer all the way to the dessert—is one of my favorites.

Get you a man who’s spent their entire life committing crime while evading prison time. They pay attention to every small detail.

The men tell us to enjoy and leave the stage.

“How did you do this?” I ask, picking up my fork and stabbing a piece of romaine lettuce with it.

“I made some calls.” Damien shrugs, as if it was no biggie.

“Oh, yes,” I say around a heavy laugh. “I forgot how easy it is to make some calls and reserve a private showing of the New York City Ballet company.”

I hope those calls involved monetary promises, not threats.

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