Page 123 of A Taste like Sin
There’s no mocking humor tainting his accent. I can’t tell if he’s serious or taunting. Maybe that’s the
point. Dealing with him is a game, pushing my heart to its limits. Knowing at any second he might
caress it with the tip of a paintbrush or stab a blade through it.
“I think I know who’s behind the attacks,” I admit. “I think he’s going to try killing my father again.
Then…I think he’s going to kill me.”
“¿Sí?” A fierceness makes him sound more intimidating than ever.
“It could be you,” I admit. “The one killing everyone involved in your brother’s case. The real culprit
behind the attack on me. You really were behind the Simon imposter. This is all your game…”
“Sí,” he admits. “It could be me. I won’t insult your intelligence by proclaiming my innocence. You
have no reason to believe me.”
But he’s wrong. And that’s the terrifying part.
“It could be Mateo,” I add. “He’s angry. No one would believe he wasn’t capable.”
“Sí,” Damien admits. “Even I, at times, am not sure of what he’s capable of.”
“But I don’t think he is. He’s too angry. Too driven by rage. He would be sloppy.”
But this killer is clean. Precise. His goal isn’t to sow pain and fear—it’s more calculated than that. In
his view, maybe even pure.
“I think you can help me draw the real killer out into the open,” I say cautiously. “But you’d risk
exposing yourself and sending your empire crashing down around you. You’d have to risk lowering
your precious mask and letting the world see the monster underneath. And you’d have to do so
knowing that, even then, I still can’t forgive you.”
His silence ratchets the tension building in my chest, squeezing every ounce of blood from my heart.
I’m dizzy, swaying in time with my surging pulse.
“Could you?” I croak, finally demanding an answer.
“Tell me what you need,” he says. “Tell me. And I will do it.”
A fter I hang up with Damien and venture downstairs, I find Julio waiting for me in the living
room. He stands near the now missing coffee table, sweeping what seems to be small shards of
glass into a dustpan. As I approach, he sets his broom aside and faces me, swiping his hands over the
front of his professional suit.
“Morning, Ms. Thorne.”
“Thank you,” I say, forcing the words past my thickened throat. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble
