Page 67 of Sinful Desires
I took it.
“You’ve done exceptional work the past year,” he said, voice lower now, more sincere, if that word meant anything anymore. “I’ve got enemies in every fucking corner of this country. And yet?…?nothing ever touched me or my family. Not a scratch. Not a whisper. You made sure of that. And for that, Iamgrateful. We’ll miss you in Bangkok.”
The antique gold grandfather clock behind him snapped a tick. Loud. Nasty. Outside, fireworks cracked the sky, but all I heard was incoming fire. My jaw clenched before I even realized.
The bass hammered, trying to crack my ribs open. Cheers blurred into screams. Bangs slammed into my skull.
My mind yanked it all back. Sweat slid down my spine. Not from heat, but from the kind of noise that drags you to places you swore you’d never go again.
My hands stayed locked behind me tightly, like they had a mind of their own. Military reflex. No one was barking orders here, but I still stood like I was waiting for one.
Christopher Dawson, former mayor turned parasite, was done playing king. The charges had stacked too high to crawl out from under. Fraud. Laundering. Blood money scrubbed clean for too long. His trial was in a week, but the ending was already written.
He knew it. His lawyers knew it.
He was leaving tomorrow. New identity. New country. No intention of ever setting foot in this city again.
But first, a farewell in the form of a lavish party. A room full of fake applause and back-room vultures smiling widely, knives hidden in their hands.
“I hope you’ll come to visit us sometime.”
With a final nod, I turned and left the room. The hallway stretched ahead, music hammering through my chest, bass rattling my bones, while my hands began twitching.
Dawson’s mansion was worth over forty million dollars, nestled in Old Westbury. The kind of neighborhood where celebrities, billionaires, politicians, and royalty hide from the city.
Acres of land, a maze, and a giant fountain with sculptures of angels and demons going at it. All that space? It was supposed to give someone like me a break. Somewhere to retreat, clear my head, and tame my demons.
I cut through the house, dodging the crowd, sliding toward a back door tucked behind a seven-foot portrait of JFK. My finger tapped the hidden button, and I slipped into the secret exit without a soul noticing. If this was my last day here, I was damn well going to make the most of it.
My boots scraped the rocks as I cut through the maze, music still pounding behind me, swallowed piece by piece by the trees.
I didn’t need to think. My feet knew exactly where to take me. Three rights, two lefts, one more right, and there it was. The fountain. Water sliced through the air, each drop glinting like a razor.
Tout ça est de ta faute, Théo.
Tu as détruit notre vie.
On ne te pardonnera jamais.
They called it PTSD. I called it my demons.
The shit that scraped at my skull, dragged me down in my sleep, and filled my head with memories that wouldn’t let go. The sounds that haunted me, the constant screaming, the noise. It’s like they were always there, waiting to kill me.
But on nights like this, when I was done with all the bullshit and the job was finally over, I’d end up here. The sound of the water steady, unyielding, like a fuck you to everything else.
It drowned out the shit in my head.
I almost wanted to laugh at the irony.
It didn’t erase the memories, but for a minute it would shut them up. And that’s all I needed.
Because deep down, I fucking knew tonight was it. The plan was finished. No second thoughts, no goddamn miracle. Just silence. Forever.
The bullet was already waiting for me on my bedroom table, still and patient, ready to do what nothing else could—end it all. I was ready to fucking die.
Tonight.
But for the first time in forever, someone had dared to fuck with my peace.
