Page 33 of Throne of Sin

“You must be new around here.” The man picks up my tray and holds it out to me, but his fingers stay gripping its edge as I try to take it back.

“Yeah, sorry. Thanks.” I pick up an empty beer bottle from the table next to us and try to tug the tray from his grasp. He doesn’t let go.

“What’s your name?”

Before I can reply, a regular has moved between us. “Leave Demi alone. She’s off limits.”

“This is between her and me.” The stranger tries to push the regular out of the way and I take a few steps back, only to be stopped by the gathering crowd.

“No, you don’t understand. She’s Dante’s.”

The stranger turns his back, ignoring the warning. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as the regular cracks his bottle over the table, shattering glass. My tray is dropped to the ground as the men square off at each other. The regular lunges at the stranger with his jagged bottle and I’m pushed forward by the throng of bodies crammed into the room. I don’t know what to do. On instinct, I break the bottle I’m holding, in case I need to use it.

My heart is pounding out of my chest and my fingers grip the neck tighter.

The stranger flicks open his curved pocket knife, swiping at the face of his opponent. I try to step around, but bodies bump into me, pushing me into the fight. I arch my back, missing the glass bottle that swoops near my face, before it’s poked into the stranger’s arm and pulled back out a moment later. A few droplets of blood sprinkle across my chest. I have no time to react before my head is whipped back from the force of my hair being pulled. “I bet you’re a great fuck.”

Automatically, my hand pushes down into the side of his leg with my broken glass bottle, and I’m able to turn to face the man. His face is red, his lips snarling. I watch as he tries to reach into his jacket, but is lunged at before he’s able to grab anything. I bet he has a gun.

The loud music is cut, but the room is just as loud with it off as it was with it on. Over the top of the crowd I see men shoving their way forward, but I’m scared they won’t make it here in time.

Six big looking men storm over, pushing me out of the way to get to the fighting men.

My hand lands on a bunch of small pieces of glass. My palm by the thumb has a large piece of glass sticking out of it. I watch as blood runs over my hand, landing on the floor. It doesn’t even hurt. I’m bumped around some more, while I stand in place, picking glass out of my skin. It’s impossible to move far. As soon as I pull out the sizable chunk, blood pours out of my hand like a river.

I stumble, my head feeling light, and have to place my hand on a table to steady myself.

“Ah shit, Dem.” I look up to find Dante staring down at my hand. He places his own over mine, pulling me out of the crowd and toward his office.

“I’m fine. I just need a Band-Aid.”

“What youneedis stitches.” He opens the door, grabbing a shirt to wrap around my hand. Crimson seeps through the fabric within seconds.

“Keep pressure on it.” He uses his own hand to show me the amount of pressure needed before he lets go and rounds his desk.

He pulls a first aid kit from one of his drawers, dumping all of its contents onto the desk and gathers what he needs.

My light-headedness is making it hard to stand up, so I wobble to the leather seat across from his and fall into it. Pain begins to work through the euphoric haze of adrenaline as I take a deep breath to make the dizziness go away.

I try to ignore the pain, but it’s hopeless. Dante pulls over a stool and sits in front of me. He takes my hand in his and gently removes the wrapping. I turn my head because the look of the gash is making my stomach swish with nausea.

“You never do anything halfway, huh? It always has to be a hundred percent or nothing. This is going to take at least ten stitches.”

“What can I say? I’m an overachiever.”

“Where was our ambition when we were in school? Might’ve actually helped back then”

“Speak for yourself; I graduated with honors,” I reply with pride.

His hand pauses from cleaning my wound. “I didn’t know that.”

“That’s because I never mentioned it. People look at me differently when they find out I’m smart. It’s like I lose all of my street credit and, for most of my life, street cred has been a matter of survival.”

He takes my hand and places it over the gauze he’d been using to clean the wound, while he pulls out a needle and what looks like string.

“Have you ever stitched anyone up before?”

He gives me that panty-dropping boyish smirk I used to love so much. “I have a jar of bullets that I’ve pulled out of Savio. I stitch him up all the time. I’m a pro, you won’t even have a scar.”

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