Page 117 of Sinful Desires
But inside, I burned like a girl too stupid to stop wanting the man who had left her to rot.
Chapter
Thirty
“I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.”
? Charles Dickens
Théo
“Appreciate you showing up, LeRoy. Days like this, I only trust men who know how to keep the wolves smiling while they bleed.”
I took the glass he handed me, but didn’t drink. My fingers tightened around the stem as my gaze swept over the church. The scent of lilies clung to the air, masking the salt of roasted meat and champagne.
Six of my men stood scattered among the crowd. Some near the stained-glass exit. Others flanking the buffet with a plate they wouldn’t touch. The last posted beside the cellist. Not a single one smiled.
That wasn’t in the job description.
Sawyer had called me six months ago, mouth full of chocolate donut, and said he was tired, old, and done with the bullshit. Gave me half the company, took his wife, and flew to Asia.Stayed a few months, then disappeared to some beach where he’d been smoking, tanning, and pretending emails didn’t exist.
Lucky bastard.
“Didn’t take you for the domestic type, Lazzio. Thought marriage was either beneath you?…?or bad for your dick.”
He scoffed. “It was. But love doesn’t always knock. Sometimes it breaks the fucking door down and lights a cigar while your life burns around it.”
I hummed. “L’amour arrive quand on ne s’y attend pas.”
He tapped his glass to mine. “Exactly, my lord.” He winked as I rolled my eyes.
Fucker didn’t know how to keep a fucking secret.
My eyes returned to the crowd. I wasn’t looking. I was hunting. Searching for the only person in the room who fucking mattered to me.
And then I saw her. Her hair caught the light like blood on silk. The same shade I’d memorized in the dark, soaked through with rain, twisted in my fist. That fucking red hair I was so obsessed with it made me sick.
She stood with her back to me, the shape of her waist framed too easily by the arm of some asshole who didn’t know what he was touching. His hand rested low, too casually, like he thought he had a right to be there.
I stared, jaw tight, the glass still full in my hand. And for a second, I pictured snapping it at the joint and feeding it to the dogs.
Not because I was jealous. But because she was mine in ways he’d never understand. In ways she didn’t even fucking know.
“My offer still stands, LeRoy,” Lazzio said, tilting his glass. “I owe you my life. That makes me a debt in your hands.”
I shook my head. “Keep your debt. I don’t fucking want it.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re the only bastard I know who’d walk away from two hundred million dollars and a seatat my table. So, what is it? Pride? Or is there something darker rotting under that silence of yours?”
“Something else.”
He set his glass down and crossed his arms, gaze drifting to where his wife was laughing with a very pregnant Sofiya Melov. Volkov’s wife.
I’d met the man last year, on a day I wouldn’t ever forget. Hated to admit it, but he was lethal. The kind of lethal that didn’t need noise or knives to get what he wanted.
“I’m listening.”
“I want her back under my watch.” I didn’t say her name. Didn’t have to. He knew exactly who the fuck I meant.
