Page 56 of Sixth Sin

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. I assume you got my present.”

“You mean your blackmail?”

“That’s such an ugly word. I prefer incentive.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I tilt my chin. “Is this about me outing your audition with benefits bullshit? Is your pride still hurt? Well, get the fuck over it. You’ve already sued me, Rosten. You won. What can you possibly have left to gain by doing this?”

“You’re damn right I won. I’ll always win. Just the fact you thought someone like you could take down someone like me is pathetic. You tried to ruin me?” He lets out a theatrical laugh, his lip curling into a smug smile. “Well, I annihilated you.”

“Maybe I have nothing, but I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. You’re four-hundred-thousand dollars richer, and my debt is paid.”

“You think I give a flying fuck about your pathetic four-hundred-thousand dollars? I made twice that in the time it took for you to fumble your ass from reception to my office. I didn’t even deposit your check. I cashed it and jerked off with a fistful of hundred-dollar bills.” As if the words weren’t enough, he follows it up with a hand gesture.

“I’m flattered, Rosten, but I’m strictly clitly.”

His hardened gaze fills with irritation. “That wasn’t an offer, you shithead.” His attention diverts as he picks up the discarded photo. I don’t like the way he’s staring at it. If I didn’t know half of Burbank worked here, I’d shove the damn thing down his throat. “But maybe I should call up America’s resurrected sweetheart,” he says, licking his lips. “A picture really does say a thousand words, and it looks like she’d scream them all.”

All I see is red.

“Stay away from her, or I’ll—”

He cocks a gray eyebrow. “Or you’ll what? Publish another blast? Out me again? You can’t, McCallum. It’s part of the settlement, remember?” Letting out a dark chuckle, he tosses the photo on his desk. “You can’t say shit about me without invalidating our agreement and being held in contempt.”

He’s right. It’s the only reason he didn’t take BTN in the settlement, as well. A compromise my lawyers negotiated despite my repeated objections. I keep my business, but the names Greg Rosten and Silverline Studios can’t be mentioned in any capacity. Otherwise, the arbitration is considered broken, and I’m fucked, broke, and incarcerated.

Running a hand through my hair, I tug at the roots and turn toward the window. I don’t have a damn thing to hold over him.

Then my gaze wanders back to the photo. The one snapped by a photographer who had the balls to climb a twelve-foot partition. Then my mind reverts back to the front lawn and a question mumbled by a paparazzo in a baseball hat.

“How do you feel about McCallum’s feud with Greg Rosten?”

Son of a bitch.

“That paparazzo wasn’t working for a tabloid. He was on your payroll, and the minute he climbed over a fence and into my backyard, he was trespassing on private property.” I don’t wait for him to answer before I turn back around, adding with a smirk, “And that’s illegal.”

“Prove it.”

“I’ve got it right here!” I shout, jerking my phone out of my pocket.

“You’ve got a picture emailed to you from a ghost account. Prove it was me. I know you’re not wearing a wire. The metal detectors would’ve taken care of that.”

Damn it, he’s right again. “What do you want?”

A beat passes then he leans forward, “I want her.”

My blood turns to ice. “What?”

“You heard me. I still think you’re full of shit, McCallum, but the Romanov estate wouldn’t bend over solely on the word of some third-rate gossip blog. If this girl really is Alexandra Romanov, she’s guaranteed box office gold.”

“Did you accidentally roofie yourself? I know what you do to your box office golden girls. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you anywhere near her.”

“Technically, the Romanov family is contractually obligated to Silverline. Nicholas Romanov was on the board of directors.”

“Nicholas Romanov is dead,” I growl, my temper blazing. “Along with his wife and four children. Alexandra’s contract voided the minute they were buried.”

“Well, there’s still the matter of this crown jewel.” Picking up the picture, he dangles it between his thumb and index finger. “I bet the tabloids would sell their mothers to buy this.” He pauses, glancing up at me through narrowed eyes. “How about you, Dominic? Would you sell your mother to buy it?”

“Choose your next words very carefully, Rosten.”

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