Page 1 of By Sin To Atone

Prologue

Ezekiel

I know what you did.

Ice clinks against the crystal tumbler. I lift it to my mouth and sip the whiskey but don’t quite taste it. Don’t quite feel the numbing effects of it.

I read the text message for the hundredth time, tempted to reply, angrily staring at my screen as if it will give me an answer. A name. A fucking face.

I know what you did.

That’s it. Five words accompanied by a newspaper article about the accidental death of my father and his mistress.

Mother. Fucker.

“Mr. St. James?” a woman’s soft, slightly accented voice interrupts.

I shift my gaze up to the server who clears her throat, a blush already creeping along the pale skin of her neck.

Nora.

I check my expression, force a smile.

“Yes, Nora?”

“The gentleman you were expecting is here to see you, sir.”

I glance at my wristwatch and nod to her. That pink hue blooms, coloring her cheeks. She’s sweet. Young. Pretty. Very pretty. And far too inexperienced for her own good. There’s a part of me that knows I should warn her. Tell her to stay away from the men who frequent this club. Men like me. But I’m too selfish for that. And nowhere near good enough to do it.

“Show him to my table.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure we’re not interrupted, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” She turns to go, hesitates.

“What is it, Nora?” I ask, trying to keep the impatience from my tone.

“Um. I was wondering if you’d perhaps need me later?” she asks, a note of optimism in her voice even as she swallows the last part.

That pink deepens to crimson. She’s embarrassed.

“You’re sweet to ask, but no. Not tonight,” I say.

She blinks, looks every which way but at me. “Oh. I…” She finally clears her throat and is able to meet my gaze once more. “I’m sorry, I just?—”

“Let’s not keep my guest waiting, Nora. You know how I feel about being made to wait.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” She nearly trips in her rush to get to the door. I don’t even watch her go. I look at my phone instead. At that fucking message that has stolen the little joy I have these days. But when I hear the overly exaggerated twang that can only belong to Robbie Shetland, I tuck the phone into my pocket and watch him enter, charming Nora. He towers over her with his big cowboy boots, the signature fur coat he inherited from his granddaddy, as he likes to tell the story, the black hat still on his head. He catches my eye but there’s no break in his monologue.

The other patrons turn to take in the large, loud American who clearly doesn’t belong. Eden 9.5 is a high-end bar known for its many shadowy corners. It’s tucked in an out-of-the-way alley in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. Hidden in plain sight, it doesn’t draw the multitude of tourists who frequent the district.

Robbie tips his hat to someone whose eye he catches, and I study the way he makes himself appear so casually unaware. So fucking clueless and not at all like the man he is. In reality, I am sure he’s cataloged all the faces in this room already. He has that kind of memory. I’m certain he will know all their names by tomorrow morning.

I stand, adjust a shirtsleeve. The polished Montblanc cufflink gleams when it catches the light.

“Robbie,” I say, stepping around the small table. I extend my hand in greeting. “Pleasure to see you again.”

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