Page 195 of Sinful Desires
After Lazzio confirmed that the guy from the security footage was who we’d expected, I’d started digging. Tracked his IP. Went through his finances, public records, and criminal file.
Everything was clean.
I’d hacked his laptop, tapped into his webcam, watched every inch of that room. He was never there. Just stale air and a glowing screen. No posters of her. No photos. Nothing that screamed obsession.
And that’s what made my blood run cold.
He wasn’t stalking her because he was a fan. It was something else.
Something darker.
I knew that he would be here tonight. I had a fucking gut feeling.
“He’s here,” Lazzio said beside me, eyes locked on his wife as she wove through the crowd and hugged Scarlett.
He offered me a glass of champagne. I didn’t take it.
He blended into the scene in white too. I was the only one out of sync, draped in black, hands clenched at the top of my bulletproof vest. The word SECURITY stretched across my chest.
“Where?” I asked, eyes scanning the balconies.
“Third floor. I saw him with Scarlett’s father. They talked. They shook hands.”
My jaw tightened. “Think her father’s trying to get her killed?”
Lazzio choked on his drink. “Jesus. No. He’s a piece of shit, sure. But he still loves her. Buried under all that cash and macho bullshit, he gives a fuck. Just not in any way that matters.”
Before I could answer, a rough voice slid between us.
“Well, well. My favorite uptight men in all of New York.”
Alexsei Romaniev. Dripping in white silk, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth, vodka glinting in his glass.
I hadn’t seen him in over a year. He’d taken off with his wife and the twins for some kind of road trip across the country. Showed up a few times while Scarlett was in rehab.
I kept my distance. No one needed to know I was there the whole damn time, buried in the walls.
“Look what I dragged in,” he said, grinning. “Had to bribe the bastard with top-shelf vodka, only to find out his wife already planned to come. Lost twenty grand on this fucker.”
Mikhaïl Volkov stepped up beside him and rolled his eyes.
White suit crisp. Posture loose. Eyes Cold.
The kind of man who slit throats just to watch the pattern the blood made.
“How’s Sawyer?” Alexsei asked. “Haven’t heard from him in a while.”
I shrugged. “Handed me half the company last year. Said he was tired.”
Bastard was in the Bahamas, sipping cocktails with his wife, living the dream.
Mikhaïl nodded, barely. Then he leaned against the wall beside us, eyes drifting until they landed on Sofiya, his wife.
She was busy laughing with the girls.
Apparently, the two had met at a gas station and later moved to Moscow. She left him to work in New York, and he’d spent months crossing the country to get her back.
At least that was the version people liked to tell.
