Vicious (Sinners of Saint 1)

He kicked me again, and I managed not to curl into myself. I knew it was the last time because he was bleeding from his nose and needed to stop the stream and reposition it before it got swollen. Scarlet blood dotted the beige carpet, and I knew I was going to have to pay for this crap.

“Get up,” he ordered.

I braced myself on the edge of the bed, scrambling to my feet.

Dean smiled, smoothing his bloodied shirt. “You look good,” he remarked.

I knew I probably had two black eyes and a cracked rib. I nodded. “So do you. Fucking terrific. Anything else?”

“Yeah, actually.” He leaned against the desk where my laptop sat and gave me the same victorious expression I’d mastered over the years. “I’m interested to know, how the hell do you think this is going to play out? Your next stop is Los Angeles, and I’m moving back to New York. But hey, man, don’t worry. I’ll take care of her in my office.” He thumped his chest and winked.

My body shook with rage, but I reminded myself that he was just taunting me for being an asshole to him. Still, this had to stop. “Just get the fuck out before I do something that will cost us millions and years of meetings in stuffy courtrooms. Go.”

He didn’t budge. He didn’t look amused anymore either. I sucked in a breath.

“Fire her, Vicious. I don’t want her in my branch, and I don’t want her in yours either. This girl fucked off with another guy when we were kids and didn’t even bother to return my calls.”

No she didn’t. She left because I made her leave.

“Not happening,” I said, even though I had no idea what to do. She wasn’t coming to Los Angeles, that much was clear, and Dean would never let her continue working at the office in New York. I didn’t know how I was going to keep her. I just knew I fucking had to.

“Yes, it is,” Dean responded calmly, his nose still bleeding all over the carpet. Goddammit. “The girl screwed me over.”

“She didn’t,” I finally roared. I threw my arms in the air, using what little control I still had in me not to go at him again. I spotted my lit blunt burning a hole in the bloody carpet behind Dean. He noticed where my eyes landed and crushed it with his designer Monk Straps.

“She didn’t screw your life over. I did,” I repeated less heatedly. “I sent her off with twenty thousand dollars. In exchange, she promised she’d tell you she ran away with someone else, specifically stressing that she didn’t want to hear from you ever again.”

“Why would she listen to you?” He crossed his arms over his chest, skeptical, his brows arched.

“Because I threatened her. I told her I’d fire her parents. Her sister Rosie is constantly on meds. They needed the money.”

Silence fell between us, heavy and loud.

“You’re such a sick psycho,” he mumbled.

I said nothing because it was an observation, not a question.

“It doesn’t change shit, though, Vicious.” Dean finally moved to the door, and when we stood side by side, me squeezing the handle and him on the threshold, our eyes met. “You’re saying goodbye to Millie and firing her, or I’ll make sure you’re kicked off the board. Good night.”

ROSIE GOT BACK FROM TODOS Santos on Monday morning, all smiles and stories about Mama’s new sewing machine and Daddy’s weird fascination with Toddlers and Tiaras. I had to admit, Little Rose had never looked better.

I smiled through my heartache and tried to look like someone who was not losing her mind over a man who’d specifically and repeatedly told her that he was only looking for casual sex.

We talked. For long minutes, maybe even an hour, but I didn’t listen. Not really. The room spun around me, like a ballerina on her toes, round and round, and in the blur, there was only him. His dark eyes. His scowl. His air.

He was taunting me, even when he wasn’t there.

“Did you see Vicious?” I finally asked, my words hurried. I hated that my voice was hopeful, and I hated that every single thing I learned about him made me crave him even more. It was all so stupid, and I was an idiot who needed to face the truth—I had feelings toward the man who was notorious for lacking them.

Rosie shrugged. “He dropped by and packed up some his stuff from his old room on Christmas Eve after you called. I offered my condolences and he, in return, offered me his middle finger. He looked pissed off. I mean, he always looks pissed off, but this time he also looked like he wanted to maybe go on a shooting spree and spare no one, kittens and puppies included. You know what I mean?”