Envy (Criminal Sins 1)

“What’s this, our third date?”

The jolly spirit of the half-packed pub seems to be getting to me—or maybe that’s just the Irish whiskey. News on Enzo Barella and his connection to all the shit that’s been going down lately has been slowly trickling in, and it feels more and more likely that he’s behind my troubles back home. Cyrus has sent out an olive branch to an international syndicate he knows about. The Rio Syndicate. Apparently, their whole M.O is fighting back against Enzo’s schemes. It seems that the slimy American has made just as many enemies as he has allies, and if I’m going to have any hope, then I’m going to have to make some allies out of his enemies.

The Rio Syndicate is hard to get a hold of, but Cyrus has an in with them. Still, until they decide to respond, all I can do is wait. The forced patience doesn’t suit me well, but without any men of my own, I don’t have many other options. Plus, Cyrus has always had a way of loosening me up; and now, so does Catalina—together, they’re like a tag team of levity on my heavy soul.

It doesn’t hurt that Catalina seems to be just as swept up in the spirit of the cozy little village pub as I am... or maybe she’s still just high off of our fuck in the library. I know I am.

“That depends,” Catalina lilts, leaning against the counter at the back of the small pub. “Do you count kidnapping me as a first date? What about tying me up in your dungeon? Or locking me up in your condo?” There’s a hint of accusation behind her tone, but it’s also playful enough that I don’t take any offence.

She obviously still harbors some resentment for all that I’ve put her through, but she clearly is also on the same wavelength that I’m riding. There’s something special growing between us that negates all the negative—although, to be fair, I’ve put her through much worse than she’s put me through.

“... I might count the dungeon,” I tease, leaning beside her. “So, that would make this the fourth date.”

“I guess I held out long enough,” Catalina shrugs.

“No one ever said you were easy.”

“You did!” she shouts, full of faux-indignation.

I smirk. “I guess I was wrong.”

“Seems like you’re wrong about a lot.”

The playful dig catches me the wrong way, and for a split second I’m reminded of my failures. My buildings are burning, my territory has been taken from me, along with my power and all my men...

But when Catalina leans sideways and rubs up against my shoulder, I’m calmed back down.

Focus, Angel.

26

Catalina

It’s the first time I’ve felt comfortable enough around Angel to have even the faintest sip of alcohol. I’m not a big drinker, never have been, probably never will be, but this little trip half-way-around-the-world has imbued an adventurous spirit inside of me—or maybe that’s just from Angel’s dick.

Either way, I’ve broken one seal, why not another?

Anything to help me forget what we left back home...

Black clouds and bloody rubble threaten to take over my mind, but I quickly swat them back with a bitter shot of Irish whiskey.

“I thought you didn’t drink?” Angel smirks, leaning against me. His big body is like a warm muscular blanket; I can’t help but lean back into him.

“I didn’t fuck either,” I whisper back, careful not to say it too loud.

“Well, then tonight I’m going to make sure you do both.”

A lustful tingle bubbles up from between my legs at the memory of our explosion in the library. I could barely walk the next morning. Whatever, walking’s overrated; if I can’t walk tomorrow morning, then that will just mean I had a good night tonight.

I could use a good night.

“Here’s another shot for the lady,” the old Irish bartender sings behind the counter as he slides an amber glass my way. “Courtesy of the gentlemen over by the front.”

I feel Angel’s eyes dart towards the pub’s entrance before I can even look for myself. My drink remains untouched as I wrap a soothing hand around my fiancé’s arm. I’ve seen hints of his possessive jealousy come out before, and I’m in no mood to ruin the good cheer that’s currently distracting us from our problems.

A group of young to middle-aged men sit at a rickety table by the front door. A brawny, bearded Irishman lifts up his frosty mug in my direction. Missing teeth spot his smirk. I hug onto Angel’s arm a little tighter, but this time it’s not for his sake, it’s for mine.

There’s something in the patron’s eyes that unsettles me. It’s like he knows something... something he shouldn’t.