Page 24 of Sixth Sin

I only vaguely register him moving toward the door, but the wolfish grin he gives me as he cocks his chin over his shoulder permanently brands itself into my memory.

“I guess you’ll just have to open the door to find out.”

CHAPTER TEN

DOMINIC

Silence is the gateway to hell.

That’s why after the damn radio won’t turn on, I drive down a dusty road in Chula Vista at seven-forty-five in the morning with the devil on my mind instead of the woman I’m on my way to see.

The devil is a tricky fucker. He operates a lot like a credit card. He’ll lay the world at your feet and ask for nothing in return.

For now.

That’s the thing about making deals with a man who rules the underworld. He waits until you hit rock bottom and then he strikes. And to be honest, his business plan is a lot more tempting than his saintly counterpart.

But there’s an old saying—everything in life comes with a price tag. Eventually the devil will come calling, and just like a credit card, if you’ve fucked around and let the interest pile up, there’s no way out. Your soul is his.

My mom used to have a saying, too—wish in one hand, shit in the other, then see which one fills up the fastest. As a kid, I ignored it. Much like I did most of the life tips she imparted during the rare hour or two she found herself coherent.

But it wasn’t until years later when I was fifteen that it finally clicked. When I hadn’t eaten in three days. When I was desperate and reckless.

The day I met the devil.

Seventeen years ago

Same shit, different day. I’m sitting next to a gutter, my stomach gnawing a hole in itself, when some asshole in a designer suit walks out of the deli behind me. I try to ignore him, but the smell of meat and cheese is driving me crazy. So, yeah, I watch this lucky bastard. I watch him straighten his tie, take one bite of a meatball sub, then throw it in the trash.

And I lose it.

A damn meatball sub flips a switch in my head.

So, I fall in line behind the asshole who tossed it, and just as he rounds the corner onto a side street, I make my move. Within seconds, I have his wallet in my hand without causing the slightest flutter of his suit jacket. Feeling smug, I slow my stride, ready to turn back, when a strong hand grabs my wrist.

Run.

But I can’t. All I can do is stare at the inked hand holding me in place. Colorful tattoos cover his skin, but once my eyes lock on the biggest one, my heart pole vaults into my throat.

An ornate cross spans his wrist to his knuckle, a scroll twisting around it bearing the words ‘l’unica famiglia’. That’s when I look at his face.

Fuck.

Of all the men in LA, I had to pickpocket Luciano Ricci. A fucking made man in the Vitoli crime family.

Time tangles itself in a tight little coil only to spring apart in a spray of movement, metal, and rapid Italian. One minute, I’m facing a gangster on a crowded street, and the next, I’m facing an alley wall with a gun pointed at the back of my head.

Luciano nods and one of his men twists my arms behind me like a pretzel. Locking his fingers behind his back, he paces around me, tilting his head side to side like a lion assessing his prey. Finally, a cold smile spreads across his face. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t done that, boy.”

Wish in one hand, shit in the other, then see which one fills up faster.

It’s ironic that it takes standing in a dirty back alley, with a gun pressed to the back of my head for that phrase to finally make sense. Wishful thinking is nice, but it’s not reality. This here? This is reality.

And reality sucks.

Just like a handful of shit.

“Kill me.”

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