Page 92 of Sinful Bargains

Antonio and I sat there for a while, the weight of everything he confessed settled between us. He told me how he overheard Vincent talking to Hector—admitting that they were the reason I had been put away. It made sense. I was next in line. Christopher had promised me the position of underboss, but while I was rotting in prison for ten years, that chain of command shifted. Vincent took what should have been mine, and the moment I got out, I was ready to take back what had been stolen from me.

Then Antonio told me something else—something that made my blood run cold. He had heard Vincent and Renee talking. Renee had only been with me to help Vincent find a reason—any reason—to take me down. If I so much as stepped out of line, Vincent would use it against me, eliminate me as a threat, and secure his position for good. That wasn’t hard to believe. Not about Vincent. Not about Renee. And oddly enough, not about Hector.

I had suspected Vincent was behind my shooting. That’s why I had Ben scope out his place—to prove it. To put an end to it. Turns out I was wrong about that bit.

History has a funny way of repeating itself. In some sick, twisted way, Antonio and I had been caught in the same cycle. The same betrayals. The same battles. The same war, just with different players.

Even now, when I look at him, it feels like looking into a mirror, staring into the darkest, deepest part of my soul. The tragedy was that I’d been thrust into a life of blood, dirty money, and shadows that haunted me in my sleep. My sins were supposed to end with me—die with me. I was supposed to give Antonio the life I never had, the life I’d always wanted. I wanted him to have more. To be more than me. But instead, I’d tainted his soul. My choices had bled over, staining his hands.

I had never saved Adriana and Antonio. They’d saved me. I bought this house thinking only of myself. I thought I’d suffer alongside Renee long enough to succeed Vincent, then come home to a giant, empty house and fill it with filthy, dirty money. I’d be safe here in my fortress. But that plan shattered as quickly as I’d built it.

I thought I never wanted to be a father—my own father was too shitty, his blood coursing through my veins, writing my fate for me. But that day at the diner when Adriana approached me, it was Antonio behind her that made me want to step in. He was the reason I helped. Because in helping him, I thought I could heal the part of me nobody cared to touch. The part I thought would never have a chance to breathe. Looking over Adriana’s shoulder at him, I thought I had a second chance. A chance to rewrite my own destiny. I thought maybe destiny could rewrite itself. I could escape my father’s sins and help Antonio escape his, too. The darkness that haunts me was never meant to touch Antonio. The sins of the father were never meant to bleed into the son.

This started with me, and it ends here with us.

My sins will never be his because he’s the only son I couldever want. And I’m the only father he’s got. His future won’t have to be written in the same bloodstained ink as mine.

There was one thing I needed to take care of—confronting Vincent. I stepped out of the house, ready to get in the car, when Paul’s tires screeched into the driveway. He barely put the car in park before throwing the door open and jumping out, rushing toward me like he had just run a marathon.

“Joey!” he called, breathless.

And just like that, history proved once again that it has a way of repeating itself. Karma always comes back around.

Because the next thing out of his mouth was?—

“Vincent’s dead.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register.

“What do you mean he’s dead?” I asked, my throat suddenly dry.

“I mean, they found him face down in his living room. Shot. Point-blank range,” Paul said, still catching his breath.

Vincent, the man who had built his reputation on surviving hits that he’d been labeled as “Lucky”, hadn’t lived up to his nickname this time. Someone had gotten to him first. And this time, he wasn’t lucky enough to survive the hit.

I swallowed hard, my plans shifting in real time. There would be no confrontation. No last words. Instead, I had a whole new problem on my hands—figuring out who did it. And why.

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“A few hours ago,” Paul said.

That meant out of everyone who had a reason to want Vincent dead—and there were plenty—the only ones I could cross off the list were Antonio and myself. We had been at the house for the past few hours.

Which meant the killer was still out there. And I needed to find them.

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