Page 18 of Sinful Desires
We were in my New York condo, where the black tiles glowed and every corner was filled with deep red furniture. The place didn’t sayhome, it saidcome bleed here quietly.
Alexsei had walked in once and said it looked like Dracula’s Airbnb.
He wasn’t wrong.
“Alexsei will be your new manager from now on,” Angelo said, barely glancing at me. “I’m knee-deep in the Lazzio Exhibits. You just signed as a solo artist. That comes with creative freedom.”
“And creative migraines,” I muttered into my wine.
“And more responsibility,” he went on. “I’ll always protect you,cugina mia, but I can’t hold your leash and build an empire at the same time.”
“I don’t wear leashes,” I said flatly.
“That’s the problem,” Alexsei cut in from the velvet chair. “Someone should’ve started you on obedience training years ago.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And you think you’re qualified?”
He smirked, tossing a peanut into his mouth. “Sweetheart, I don’t think. I know. I’m fluent in chaos. You’re just a messy little storm that thinks it’s the whole apocalypse.”
I sipped my wine. “If you’re trying to impress me, start with an apology for existing.”
He leaned forward. “If I wanted to impress you, Scar, you’d already be impressed. And if I ever apologize, check if I’m bleeding out.”
“Maybe I’ll help with that,” I muttered.
Angelo sighed. “Can you two stop arguing?”
“We’re not arguing,” I said.
“We’re negotiating,” Alexsei said at the same time.
Alexsei Romaniev was charm personified in Prada, sarcasm sharpened to a weapon. Russian by birth, annoying by choice.
Officially, he was in the States for business. Really, he’d come to win back his wife.
She’d left after their son died, and he’d been chasing her ghost ever since. The problem? She didn’t even know he was in New York. He’d been lurking like a love-struck lunatic, watching her from a distance, too scared to actually face her.
It was getting old. Angelo and I were one awkward rooftop sighting away from stepping in and telling her ourselves, just to end this tragic little game of hide and don’t seek.
Alexsei and I bickered like it was a blood sport, but he’d been a breath of fresh air.
Just like Victoria—unfiltered, unapologetic, unshakably real.
“Hope you enjoyed your little Tulum escape,” Alexsei said. “Time to find a new bodyguard. One who actually protects you. Don’t think we haven’t noticed your little hobby of mentally breaking them.”
Angelo’s phone rang. He muttered something about an investor and vanished like smoke.
As for Kyle, he’d finally quit. After two years of being aggressively mediocre and painfully misogynistic, he’d cracked. Couldn’t say I hadn’t seen it coming.
I mean, how many pink dildos hidden in your carry-on can a man survive before breaking? Watching airport security ask a six-foot-three man in tactical gear why he has silicone toys? Iconic.
It wasn’t personal.
Fine, maybe a little.
Mostly, it was my protest against being babysat.
I flicked ash from my cigarette. “Go ahead. I’ve barely scratched the surface of my bodyguard torture repertoire.”
