Page 98 of Sinful Sacrifice

Damien turns me in the chair, nudges my legs apart with his body, and steps between them. “What do you say I take you to dinner and then we look at them, see which you like best?”

I peer away from him, feeling my heartbeat drumming in my throat. “I can’t open a studio, Damien.” Each word stings as it leaves my mouth.

He grips my knee in his hand. “What do you mean?”

Emilio stands from his chair and walks toward the door. He makes a quick pit stop to squeeze my shoulder. Damien raises a brow at the sudden change in our relationship.

“Call if you need anything,” Emilio tells him, as if he anticipates Damien needing him after we’re finished talking.

“My mom signed the paperwork with Cernach,” I say, my voice raspy. “The deal is done. She’s opening the studio.”

His nostrils flare, and he draws back a few inches. “He’ll screw her over. He’ll screw you over.”

“I explained that to her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Did you tell her you’re opening one?”

“I did. She said that if I do, she’ll never forgive me.” I lower my gaze, refusing to meet his eyes, scared he’ll view me as weak. “Because I’ll be her competition and turn my back on my family.”

He shakes his head in frustration. “Don’t let them take away your dream. Don’t let Cernach win.”

My shoulders slump. “I’m afraid he already has.”

33

I want to drive to Boston, rip Cernach’s head off, and throw it into the Charles River.

When he visited my office, I should’ve pulled out my pistol and shot the bastard dead.

I falsely believed I’d solved the dance-studio dilemma. Cernach was worried about Paul’s broke ass, so I assumed most of his attention was there. I stupidly failed to remember how cunning he is. Like me, he’s able to focus on numerous problems simultaneously.

That’s my mistake.

That shit is on me.

“We need to talk,” Antonio says as I sit in his passenger seat, post disposal of a man’s body who’d attempted to sexually assault a Lucky Kings employee in the parking lot.

It felt good, killing him, the release and satisfaction I needed.

As I bashed the man’s skull in, I imagined he was Cernach.

When I dug the grave, I pictured rolling his body into it.

I flick my Zippo open, watch the flame dance, and blow it out. “Yeah?”

“Vinny is uncontrollable.” He massages the back of his neck. “More than he’s ever been.”

I nod in agreement. His brother’s recklessness is growing. He’s failing to realize that being boss—or next in line currently—doesn’t bestow immortality. Truth be told, it’s the contrary. People want to kill kings so they can become one.

That very reason is why Vinny is running his mouth about taking Cristian Marchetti down. He wants the throne of New York. Vinny is also too bullheaded to comprehend that his mistakes also become our mistakes to handle.

We've raised the issue during the family meetings Vinny has been absent for. Vincent is too blinded, too stubborn, to admit his eldest son isn’t fit for the job.

“I’m not even don, and I’m carrying the weight of this goddamn family,” he clips, stress lining his face.

Everyone knows Antonio will eventually become don.

Vincent will die, either by suffering another stroke or from pissing off the wrong person. Vinny won’t make it past forty. One of our enemies will murder his ass. Or one of us, honestly.

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