Page 52 of Sixth Sin

I take back every snide remark I’ve ever made about Angel being a hack, or an ingénue, or a wannabe. If I doubted her acting chops before, I don’t anymore. That was some Oscar-worthy shit. She sold the hell out of that and saved our asses.

And if I’m being honest, freaked me out.

We rehearsed none of that. None. Not a damn word. That last bit about her family’s murder? Where did that come from? I never told her that two of her sisters were shot in the head, or that her brother took a bullet between the eyes.

She definitely has some explaining to do.

“No,” he says, clearing his voice. “I wouldn’t want to remember it.”

Angel gives him a curt nod and rises to her feet. “If that’s all then, I’ve had a very long day, and I’m sure you have work to do.”

Translation: Get the fuck out.

Rubio and I stand at the same time, still twisting in whatever web she’s spun. All three of us migrate to the front door, and as Angel’s flat stare bores holes in him, he pats down his suit until he produces a black business card. “This is my personal number. Should your memory start to return, please give me a call.”

Angel takes the card and folds it in her hand. “Of course.”

I open the door, ready to help him along his way with a boot in his ass when he stops and looks over his shoulder. “By the way, my father was Miguel Rubio.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll be sure to send you both Christmas cards.”

“You’ll have to send his to Valhalla Cemetery. He went to his grave still searching for you, Miss Romanov.”

I don’t like where this is going.

She clears her throat. “Excuse me?”

“Detective Miguel Rubio,” he clarifies. “LAPD. My father was the lead detective on your family’s murder case. First on the scene and last to care about finding you.”

Angel stiffens, her calm demeanor cracking. “Detective—”

“Until now,” he interrupts, letting the words settle for a moment before tipping his chin. “Have a good day, Miss Romanov.” Neither of us speak, watching as the salivating swarm of press rush toward him. Halfway down the walkway, he stops and turns around, a brittle smile on his face. “Oh, and welcome home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

DOMINIC

The term overnight success has been tossed around so much in this town it has lost its true meaning. Now it’s just a label slapped on actors who have paid their dues for years. A narrative created by people like me to sensationalize and capitalize on people like them. That’s why the movie industry is full of addicts and untimely deaths. Eventually, the smokescreen clears, and reality pushes them aside to make room for newer headlines.

A brand-new overnight success.

That’s what I woke up to this morning. A global obsession. Every media outlet has labeled Angel “Hollywood’s newest ‘It’ girl”. Offers are pouring in every fifteen minutes from big name production companies and indie start-ups. Every eye in the world is watching her, and while I knew the eventual path this scam would take, I didn’t anticipate the guilt that would come with it.

I’m walking away with half a million in my pocket, but leaving Angel trapped in a fishbowl. Now Detective Rubio is lurking around every corner trying to drown her in it.

So, I woke up in a bad mood.

I’ve said before, I don’t do guilt, and I’m pissed at her for forcing it out of me. For swinging around balls of steel last night in front of that detective and then deflating into complete silence like someone let the air out of her balloon. For giving me whiplash by waking up this morning acting like a skittish pony, barely saying two words the whole drive to Bel Air.

Now, a house full of people stand staring at her—waiting for some grand speech. So, I do the first thing that comes to mind. I pinch her ass.

Hard.

Angel lets out a yelp, jumping forward and covering her mouth. Probably not the best idea I could’ve come up with, but at least she doesn’t look catatonic anymore. Clearing her throat, she turns a shy gaze toward Michaela. “I-I don’t know what to say. It’s very white.” Her eyes snap to me as a rumble of laughter ripples through the crowd of people gathered in the front parlor of the Romanov estate. Blushing at the attention, she lowers her eyes to her feet.

High heels to be exact. Six-inch fuck-me ones. Along with a tight black dress and smart gray jacket. Another delivery, courtesy of Milly—the woman I might skewer like a damn stiletto-ka-bob next time I see her.

It’s bad enough I’ve spent the last two weeks jerking my dick raw to the memory of Angel’s wet pussy. And now this? I’m not sure how to deal with this transformation.

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