Page 51 of Sinful Bargains

Money? A new car? It felt like a trap wrapped in an opportunity, but I couldn’t ignore the temptation.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I said, the words feeling heavy as they left my mouth.

ADRIANA

Ihad agreed to let Lucy and Angela set me up with Artie foronedate. If you couldevencall it a date—it was just coffee at the local diner on Saturday morning. Hardly my idea of a date, but then again, I wasn’texactlyan expert on dating.

Artiewasaniceguy. Tall, thin, with a sweet smile. There was nothing mysterious about him. No duffle bag in his backseat filled with anything but baseball equipment. No questionable business dealings. No extravagant brand-new car he could gift me. He was a modest man.A kind man.The kind of man you were supposed to picture when you closed your eyes and imagined a future.

With Artie, I could see it clearly—simple, secure, predictable. No complications. No shady late-night disappearances. I wouldn’t see his name in the papers. Wouldn’t spot his smirk on the front page at the grocery store checkout. In fact, Artie didn’t even smirk—he smiled. He laughed from his chest. He gave himself away easily, with no secrets lurking behind his eyes.

The worst thing he’d ever done was run a stop sign because he was late for work.

“It wasn’t a complete stop,” he confessed from across the booth, a friendly smile on his face.

I chuckled. “Wow, you’re arealdaredevil.”

He laughed, then told me the sad story of how he’d lost his wife to the influenza outbreak in ’56. After a pause, he asked about my husband. The one I thought I’d killed. The one coming back to collect. And when he did, I’d be ready.

“Oh, well,” I murmured, shifting uncomfortably as I fidgeted with the handle of my coffee mug. “He died.”

Artie’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Adriana,” he said, reaching across the table to caress my hand. His touch was gentle, kind.

But it wasn’t Joey. He wasn’t Joey. And the entire time, all I could do was compare him to Joey—and hate myself for it.

Artie’s thumb brushed over my knuckles, a small gesture of comfort. I should’ve felt something, but instead, all I felt was the heavy weight of comparison pressing down on me like a sickening vice.

I pulled my hand back, wrapping it around my coffee mug. “Thank you,” I said, offering a tight-lipped smile.

He hesitated, then leaned back against the booth. “Must’ve been hard,” he said gently. “Losing him.”

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. “Yeah,” I murmured.Harder than you know.

Artie studied me for a moment, his kind eyes searching my face. “You don’t talk about him much, do you?”

No, because I can’t. Because talking about my husband meant unraveling a truth I couldn’t afford to let slip. Because every word out of my mouth had to be carefully measured, carefully controlled.

I forced a chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s too hard to relive, I suppose.”

Artie nodded. He stirred his coffee before speaking again. “You know,” he said, glancing up at me, “I get it. Not wanting to talk about it. Some losses just sit too deep in you.”

I swallowed, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “Yeah,” I said.

He exhaled through his nose, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “After my Elena passed, people kept telling me to move on. Like grief had some kind of expiration date.” He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “But you never really move on, do you? You just learn how to carry it.”

I forced a small smile. “Yeah. You carry it.”

Artie’s eyes softened. “I hope you’ve had people to help you with that.”

My grip tightened around my coffee mug.Help? Now that was a loaded word. The only thing I had was the weight of my own choices, pressing down on me like a debt I couldn’t even begin to understand—because Joey was a hitman I never hired.

The thought made my stomach turn. Jesus. I was no better than Joey. In fact, I could be worse.

JOEY

Isat behind my desk in my office, a cigar smoldering in the ashtray beside me. I flipped through the stack of invoices in front of me. Some were real—detailing legitimate repairs, oil changes, and tire replacements. Others? Not so much. I skimmed one fromGino’s Auto Supply—a cover for a weapons shipment that had come in last week. Another fromWest End Supplydisguised a cash transfer meant for a payoff. My fingers lingered over an invoice for a ’58 Cadillac, a routine service on paper, but in reality, the car had been stripped for parts after its owner met an unfortunate end. I sighed, tapping the edge of the paper against the desk before tossing it onto the “handled” pile.

A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.

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