Page 80 of Sinners Atone
Mad Milly calls like clockwork because she calls from prison. Hers are the only calls I answer in real time because inmates can’t leave voicemails. Every Thursday at noon, I pick up, mute my microphone, and listen. I’ll press record too if it’s worth it.
Though with Milly, it’s always fucking worth it.
By the time the ghostly outline of the gates emerges from behind the haze, my brain is so full of her psychotic ramblings there’s barely any room left for my own.
I park between a Lambo and a beat-up truck, shake the snow from my leathers, and head into the house.
The gentle sound of music drifts down the hall, and the ice in my bones begins to thaw. Tucking my helmet under my arm, I follow it to the family room, then lean against the door.
Luan’s at the piano, spine curved, scars dancing down his back in the firelight. He plays to the storm battering the far window, and though his fingers barely move, they strike chords that could haunt a house.
He was born to play. But he was also born to Petrit Dritan, the head of the largest human trafficking ring in Albania, so his talent stays within the walls of this chalet.
Leaving him to it, I continue down the hall. I nod at Kwame through the window of the therapy studio—he’ll be walking again within the month at this rate—and pass through the kitchen, where Jason is cooking up Sinigang on the stove. It’s his mama’s secret recipe, and even Arben has given up trying to beat it out of him.
I find Denis in his usual haunt and in his usual stance: crouched over the snooker table in the games room. Hisshoulders tighten as I approach, and when I click the door shut behind me, his gaze slides along the length of the cue and flicks up to mine.
“You killed Seb.”
My lungs clench, and I run a hand down my throat. “Fuck.”
“I’m kidding.” He taps the white ball and straightens to watch it connect with the green. “But you blew out his knee and he hit his head pretty bad on the way down.”
I let out a tense breath. On any other day, he’d eat my knuckles for that joke. “Where is he?”
He jerks his chin to the ceiling. “Sulking in bed and watchingNetflix.” Raking an eye over me, he asks, “Why the friendly fire?”
I walk over to the drinks fridge and grab a beer. “It was a warning shot.”
“Warning him about what?”
About taking another fucking step into the garage.
I’d fired the first shot because the thought of another man seeing what I was seeing made me feel violent.The second shot was at the light because I wasn’t worthy of seeing it myself.
But I need to work on my damn reflexes because I was too late. I’d already seen the soft dip of her hips and the curve of her chest. Had already committed the outline of her nipples to memory. I could even look at a color wheel and pick out the exact shade of pink that flushed her skin when she caught me staring.
Plunging us into darkness was the worst thing I could have done. Because then the temptation to touch her like she’d touched me was too great. It eliminated the ability to see the fear in her eyes and her seeing the Devil take over mine.
You’re scaring me.
I scare every woman, and I’m perfectly fucking fine with that, but there’s something about scaring her that makes me do stupid shit. Like rocking up to her house again to teach her how to getout of the trunk I folded her into. Like cutting her out of her restraints before I could even show her how to free herself.
Self-loathing bubbles through my blood and heats to boiling point. I take it out on the closest inanimate object, thePacManmachine, and drive my fist through its screen.
“Oh no, my high score,” Denis drawls, chalking his cue tip.
The rage in my veins simmers, and I let out a breath of amusement.
Fucking Denis. Nothing fazes him. Then again, compared to the shit he deals with in this house daily, my little outburst is child’s play.
He’s my right-hand man, left side of my brain, and the heartbeat of our army. He works behind the scenes making sure my men are fed, watered, healthy, and sane before shoving them back over the front line to me. Need stitches? You go to Denis. A good beating? Denis. Passports, translators, tech support. He does anything and everything to keep the organization ticking over.
Heir to the largest illegal timber logging company in Gabon, Africa, he was born into this life too, but he wasn’t built for it. Not physically, with his lean runner’s build, pressed shirts, and glasses as thick as a bible. Not mentally either—when I first met him on our first day in Hell, he’d brought only a Rubik’s cube and a book of crossword puzzles with him. Right then and there, I knew his heart was too big, his conscious too heavy.
There were three of us once.
The last gulp of beer tastes bitter. I grab another and sink down on the sofa to watch him play.
