Page 25 of Sixth Sin

He blinks. “What?”

“Are you deaf?” I shout. “I said pull the trigger and get it over with.”

In two wide steps, we’re face to face. So close I can smell the marinara on his breath. “Do you know who the fuck I am?”

“You’re Luciano Ricci. You answer to Marco Vitoli, and I’m pretty sure he’d be pissed to hear you got pickpocketed by a fifteen-year-old street rat.”

Daggers shoot from his eyes. I guess he’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Finally, he grabs my face. “Boy, do you have a death wish?”

“Maybe I do.”

Luciano smiles. The men behind me laugh. I stare all of them down. I might only be fifteen, but by God, I’m no pussy. If I’m about to die, I’ll die like a man.

But there’s no gunshot. No pain. No bright light, or demons rising from hell like Mom keeps warning me about. Only Luciano’s smirking face as he nods toward the men behind me and lowers his hand.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Dominic.”

“Well, Dominic, you keep fucking with the wrong people and someday you’ll get your wish.” That tattooed hand clamps around the back of my neck. “But today is not that day.”

Without another word, he steers me toward the black SUV idling at the far end of the alley. It isn’t until we’re seated in the back and traveling down Hollywood Boulevard that he pulls out a cigar. We sit in silence as he takes his time unwrapping the cellophane. By the time he lights the end, the short fuse I have left burns to the ground.

“Look, I—”

“Death wish, huh?” He chuckles in between puffs. “Well, let me give you a piece of advice, Dominic.” He jabs the cigar at my chest. “If you want something, you make it happen. Wishes and hope are useless weapons, and the fool who stands with his hand out waiting for life to step up to the plate only ends up with two things.”

“What?”

His lip curls. “Empty hands and an empty wallet.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DOMINIC

Present Day

Angel narrows her eyes. “What’s that look for?”

We’re sitting across from each other at an outdoor cafe about ten miles outside Chula Vista. Coming here was a strategic move to force her out of her comfort zone. At the bar and her apartment, she had the upper hand. Now we’re on neutral ground, and there’s nowhere to run. No Violet to interrupt. No door to throw me out of. And I’m not leaving without the answer I want.

“Nothing,” I mutter, forcing myself not to stare at her like a fucking pervert.

She doesn’t buy it. Made evident by the exaggerated eye roll as she dumps at least a quarter cup of sugar in her coffee. I watch her lift the cup to her mouth, and she catches me staring at her lips. She pauses, the corner of her mouth curling in a knowing smirk.

Fuck.

This devil-kisses-my-ass vibe she has going on is doing nothing to calm the hard-on I’ve had for damn near fifteen hours. There are only so many times a man can jerk off before his dick needs medical attention.

Angel opened the door before I could knock this morning, dressed to kill in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a camouflaged shirt with criss-cross ties half-way down her chest. On anyone else it would look basic, but on her it looks effortlessly sexy.

Angel clears her throat again, her hands locked tight around her cup. “You were saying?”

I study her, saying nothing. There’s wisdom in silence most people don’t take the time to hear. After all, humans have two ears and one mouth for a reason, a fact that seems to escape most of Los Angeles. While the loudest voice usually gets the most attention, sometimes, it’s the most subtle things that make the most noise.

And Angel’s noise is literally a noise. Every time she’s uncomfortable she clears her throat. I don’t even think she’s aware she’s doing it. And I’m sure as hell not going to tell her.

“I was going to say thank you for hearing me out,” I say.

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