The Consequence (The Evolution of Sin 3)

When Christopher had found me in Paris, he had confronted me right away. It seemed that now we were playing an extended game of cat and mouse.

I watched Hades pounce on an imaginary foe on the carpet in the kitchen and swallowed thickly. It was only a matter of time before Christopher confronted me again. I couldn’t imagine what he was waiting for, but whatever it was couldn’t have been good.

Dante watched me while I digested this before finally shaking his head. “You need to tell your man about this, immediately. Call him while I change. Were you planning on going to the hospital today?” I nodded. “Good, I will escort you.”

He stalked off into Cosima’s bedroom.

I desperately didn’t want to call Sinclair. He was dealing with so much already with the Paulson scandal and I was pretty sure I could handle things on my own. Christopher was a sick, twisted man but he wasn’t a murderer, he wouldn’t rape and pillage me. Besides, now that I knew he was back, I would take extra precautions to stay in a group or on busy streets. He wouldn’t approach me unless I was alone. There was no reason to make Sinclair crazy with worry over it.

Happy with my decision, I slipped off my stool and had my coat on by the time Dante came out dressed to leave.

“You informed him?” he asked me with dark, narrowed eyes.

The expression was meant to be intimidating but I’d had practice with mafia men far more scary than him so I was able to smile casually and nod.

“Good. Let me know whenever you want to go to the hospital and I will escort you, okay? No need to take unnecessary risks. One Lombardi in the hospital is enough.”

I nodded mutely but couldn’t help but frown at the contradictory man who opened the door to lead me out of the apartment. Dante was clearly a devoted and passionate man to those he loved and yet, he was a self-proclaimed made man, which made him any combination of murderer, thief and liar. What role could he possibly have played in my sister’s life?

Chapter Fifteen.

I didn’t see Sinclair for the next three days.

He had warned me that he was a workaholic, that he often spent weekends and evenings sequestered in his office high above the city. I tried not to remember the part where he told me it would be different once we were together. It wasn’t fair of me to be angry with him, not when he was working on saving a deal that he had lusted after for years, not when our relationship was the reason for its currently precarious position.

But I missed him. It was lonely living in a hotel room in a city that had become my home, without my family to comfort me. I had made my decision to put Sinclair first. I didn’t regret it but my isolation highlighted my change in circumstances like a neon pen. Though he texted, I found myself worrying about our longevity, if we could withstand everything coming at us in droves, and about his stance on BDSM, if he would waver without frequent scenes and fall into shame again.

To make matters worse, my pill pack had disappeared again even though I ransacked the suite looking for it. I made an appointment with the doctor to get another one but given my recent bought of forgetfulness, I considered switching to an IUD or a contraception shot. I didn’t worry Sinclair about it because I didn’t think it was cause for worry. I had missed one or two pills in Paris without consequences. Sinclair didn’t really want kids or marriage or the white picket fence and I was okay with that, I’d never had the same longing that my sisters did for children of my own but I was fully prepared to rock the cool aunt role.

I threw myself into furnishing our new apartment to take my mind off of everything. Armed with Sinclair’s black AMEX, Emma Meyer’s professional opinion and way too much angsty energy, I hit the best of New York’s stores. Though we had already purchased a variety of things online or through Emma’s connections with auction houses, warehouses and antique stores, it was fun and somehow mandatory to touch most of what would be in my home before I bought it. We were searching for a French provincial style sofa to match the coffee table we had found at Jung Lee’s when my phone rang.

“Giselle,” Sinclair said in greeting.

The one word was laden with meaning; his longing and the relief he felt at being able to talk to me, his continued frustration at the collapsing Paulson deal and his resulting bone deep exhaustion.

My heart ached for him.

“Sin,” I said, infusing the one syllable with the very same love and yearning I’d sensed in his voice.