Page 1 of When Sinners Hate

Prologue

Alexia

The jet touches down, and I’m thrown forward in my seat as the tyres screech on the tarmac. “What the fuck, Tim,” I shout to the pilot.

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s a short runway.”

Why Father insisted on flying me into a small runway out of town over any sensible choice of a central airport or landing strip is beyond me.

We stop abruptly, and the jet taxis to a small hangar that looks like it’s seen better days. In fact, the whole place looks like locals with their radio-controlled planes use it.

I unbuckle as Tim’s assistant – some guy I can’t remember the name of – comes into the passenger cabin and sets about opening the doors. I check my hair is neat, cover my eyes with my sunglasses and grab my Birkin. Tim, or whatever his name is, can bring the rest of my luggage.

The heat in Miami is thick with salt from the ocean, and there’s often a breeze. At least there is in my building. The same in San Diego. But here, in Texas, God, it hits me like a bus as Iclimb down the steps. It’s cloying and already has me wishing to retreat into the air-conditioned jet.

The black Range Rover, which I assume is Father, idles at the side of the hangar. I’m not walking over to him in these heels. So I stand to the side of the jet, cross my arms and wait. My luggage arrives next to me, and I take a disinterested glance to my side before tilting my head at the car.

Finally, the engine growls to life and rolls slowly towards me.

I grab the handle and swing the door open. “How gallant of you, Father.”

“I see you enjoyed your flight.”

“There was nothing wrong with the flight. It’s the false veil of secrecy it offers, as if you’ve just flown in your latest haul that offends. I hope someone is dealing with my luggage.”

He smiles and chuckles to himself, which lifts the sagging skin around his cheeks, and I watch as he slicks his nearly all-white hair back and looks at the driver, who exits. “We’ll take you back to Nicolas’ house.”

“He owned a house here?”

“We are going to be working in San Antonio and so needed somewhere to stay. He liked his luxury. I’m sure you’ll approve. He didn’t have long to enjoy it.”

“And what about the operation he was setting up?”

“It’s under control. You don’t need to concern yourself with that.”

“Really?” I twist in my seat and look at him, but his gaze is locked out into the dusty landscape around us.

“Really. We all have our jobs to do,” he mumbles.

Yeah.

The drive to Nicolas’ is in silence. I’m used to long periods of quiet where my father is concerned. He doesn’t see me as a confidant as he did Nicolas. They fuelled each other’sambition. I'm simply a prize for Father to share out to whomever he needs to win over.

A tool.

A plaything.

A bargaining chip.

Much like this deal.

The car pulls up, and I wait for someone to open my door. Finally, the driver comes to my side, and I see the stack of luggage from the trunk ready to be taken in. At least the house is nice. Quite stately in a way. A short, gated driveway leads to the turning circle we’re in now. The double-fronted arched doorway must lead inside. The whitewash gives it a Mediterranean flare I approve of.

Wooden floors clack under my heels as I enter, and more arched windows help to cool the property. For that, I’m forever grateful. “Who’s working here?” I look around the empty rooms expecting someone to come out and move my bags up to my room.

“Just my driver and the housekeeper,” Father says from behind me.

“Are you serious?”

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