Page 83 of Desperate Crimes
It’s not just a table.
It’s a throne room altar for men like us—built to bear the weight of deals, secrets, and blood oaths.
Every Viper has a desk like this.
It’s part of the legacy.
Custom-made by a local artisan Uncle Luc found years ago, back when this place was still more ambition than empire. The guy was a recluse—one of those savant types.
Touched by something divine or deranged, maybe both. He saw the wood like it was alive.
Said it spoke in knots and fractures. Shaped violence into furniture. Pain into prestige.
And damn if that isn’t what we are too.
Strength and beauty colliding. Rage under polish. Violence with a coat of class.
But right now?
I can’t fucking focus.
There’s a file open in front of me—legal documents I helped draft myself.
Contracts. Cutouts. Shell games.
The kind of thing that usually makes my brain hum, because I like the intricacy of it.
The quiet warfare of ink and signatures. The chessboard hidden behind every clause.
But my attention is shot.
Shredded by the ghost of a woman who I left in my bed, wearing silk and a satisfied grin.
Leanna Volkov.
Princess.
Temptress.
My fucking ruin.
My hand clenches the pen I’ve been using to pretend I’m present, jaw tight, blood hotter than it should be.
All I can think about is her mouth.
Her voice.
Her goddamn curves.
That little sigh she made when I slid inside her for the first time.
And the fact that she slays me.
I rake a hand through my hair and try—try—to keep my composure, but the weight of the table in front of me only reminds me of the one person not in her fucking seat.
The only thing more twisted than this burl wood?
My goddamn heart when it comes to her.
