Page 3 of Wicked Sinner
Konstantin Abramov. The thought of his name makes my stomach clench with agitation, my hands curling into fists as Istride into the cool lobby of the high-rise building and straight to the elevator without saying a word to anyone. I slide my keycard into the slot for the penthouse suite and take a breath, trying to calm myself.
This is my birthright. No matter what my father said, no matter what he tried to deny me, everything my father owned and everything he represented in this city should, and will be, mine.
I refuse to take no for an answer. Not when I’ve come all the way back, after all this time.
The softdingof the elevator brings me out of my thoughts, my feet propelling me out of it and into the crisp, perfectly clean interior of my new penthouse apartment. With an open floor plan, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a pristine view of Biscayne Bay, two floors fully furnished and decorated by a top-of-the-line designer, it’s everything I could possibly need. The last thing I wanted was to go back to the stuffy mansion that I grew up in. The memories there can wait; I’m in no hurry to revisit them.
I go upstairs to shower, shucking off the clothes I wore on the international flight over. The first place I went was the Ferrari dealership, before picking up my keys to this place and heading here. Now, even though I’m ‘home’ and could settle in for a night with takeout and a good top-shelf drink from my stocked bar cart, I still feel fidgety. Jittery. Like I can’t sit still.
Maybe it’s the plane ride from England to Miami, a harrowing journey when taken commercial, something I never intend to do again. My father’s private jet is now mine, along with everything else of his. His money and possessions are something Konstantin can’t easily take from me, though I’m not entirely convinced he won’t try.
But my father’s former positions as one of the head bosses of Miami’s criminal underworld—that Konstantin can stop me from stepping into.
I let out a long breath, ducking my hair under the hot water as it streams over my body, splashing against the tiles. Tomorrow, I meet with Konstantin and Tristan O’Malley, the Irishman who replaced Giovanni Russo as the head of the other major family. I’ll find out what they intend for my fate to be then. But tonight?—
Tonight I have nothing to do but think. And I’ve spent twenty years outrunning my thoughts.
Why not do that tonight?I lather soap over my body, running my hand down to my cock, and I run my hand along the length of it, considering the possibility of a different kind of release. But that doesn’t hold much appeal for me in this moment. And I’m in Miami—there’s no reason for me to fuck my hand when I could walk into any club or bar in this city and walk out with a woman within five minutes. Hell, if I wanted to keep it impersonal, I could go to a sex club and pay for it, though that’s something I’ve rarely done.
What I want is to be on the move. To feel my blood pounding through my veins, the thrill of adrenaline that blocks out everything else. All of my troubles can be dealt with tomorrow; tonight I’m back in the city that I once abandoned, and while the downtown lights and parties aren’t calling to me, something else is.
I bought that fucking sports car today, I might as well put it to use.
I towel off, throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and call for the valet as I head down to where my car should be waiting. Five minutes later, I’m behind the wheel of my brand-new Ferrari, breathing in the scent of new leather as I pull out onto the Miami streets and head for the edge of town.
I still remember the backroads outside of the city where I used to race cars as a teenager, before my father caught me mingling with the ‘trash’. Out there, I wasn’t Caesar Genovese, heir to an empire—I was just Caesar. Just a kid with a fast car and no respect for his own mortality.
I want to feel like that again tonight. Reckless and young and with the whole world stretching out in front of me without consequences.
Pressing the button to put the top down, I press my foot against the gas, and take off.
As I reach the darkened roads well outside of the city, I breathe in the salty night air, increasing my speed. I don’t remember the roads as well as I used to, and I know I should be careful, but right now all I want to do is throw caution to the wind. To feel my heart race, my adrenaline pump, the thrill of looking death in the eye, and drifting right past it. I watch the speedometer tick up—seventy, eighty, a hundred, a hundred and twenty miles per hour, and the wind tears the laugh of pure joy from my lips as I fly down the backroad, all of my worries forgotten in the purr of the engine and the feeling of the car under my hands.
This is the only pleasure I’ve ever found that can match the pleasure of sex. The only satisfaction that comes close. And sometimes, in moments like this, I wonder if it’s even better.
If I could ever find a woman who made me feel like this, I might never let her go.
I’m just about to slow down when I see a light flash on the dash. I glance down, seeing theCheck Enginelight come on, and I frown as I press the brake. The car is brand-fucking-new, it shouldn’t be having issues like this.
It might just be an error, something to do with the computer. I slow down to a normal driving speed, a little above sixty, watching to see if the light turns off.
When it doesn’t, my jaw tightens. I’m not in the mood for things to go wrong; what I needed tonight was for something to goright. To be in a good headspace before tomorrow’s meeting.
I’m about to pull off to the side of the road and call my insurance when I see lights up ahead. I peer at the sign coming into view, and realize that it’s a mechanic’s shop—some local mom-and-pop place.
Fucking perfect.I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe this isn’t going to be such a bad night after all. They’re clearly closed, but the garage bays are open and the lights are on, so someone is up and about. I’ll offer them a good sum of money to look at the car and be on my way. They’ll be grateful that I overpaid them, and my problem will be solved.
Easy enough.
I pull up, killing the engine as I step out of the car. A figure steps toward me in the doorway of the garage, a smaller person than I would have expected, and I come up short when they—whenshesteps into the light.
I expected some grizzled old man. Not the woman who is standing there staring at me, her arms crossed over her chest—abeautifulwoman.
Even the way she’s dressed right now: in oil-stained denim overalls with her hair in a hasty braid, she’s gorgeous. Her face is a perfect delicate heart shape, her figure clearly stunning even under the loose denim, her mouth a full bow that I can imagine wrapped around my cock the instant my eyes drop to her lips. Her eyes are large, right now staring at me with both a look of incredulity and an expression that I know all too well.
Modesty is not one of my virtues. I’m well aware of what I look like and how women respond to me. And right now, this one is looking at me like a Greek god stepped out of that Ferrari and is on her doorstep.
I expect for the conversation to go much the same way as it would have if it had been anyone else. For her to accept the money and agree to look at my car. But she’s stubborn. Irritated that I’ve interrupted her night. I can tell she doesn’t like my arrogance.
