Buried in Sin (D’Ambrosio Family #1)

Chapter 1 Bella

BELLA

The thing about walking in on your boss getting his dick sucked is that there's really no graceful way to handle it.

Trust me.

I'm standing in the service hallway behind the Bellamy Gallery, iPad clutched to my chest, as I watch my boss Slava Romanov getting a very enthusiastic blowjob when he’s supposed to give a talk about the importance of funding the arts, complete with a very public photo-op with the director of the gallery.

But you know what the most infuriating part is? He looks about as interested in the performance as someone who's just finished reading his Tuesday morning calendar invites.

And it's one hell of a performance.

The woman in the dark red dress is on her hands and knees.

Her stiletto heels are tucked under her ass while her ponytail bounces with the rhythmic bob of her head.

She takes him all the way to the hilt and holds him there for a second before pulling back to the tip.

Then, without ever letting him go to take a breath, she plunges all the way down again.

For a second, I almost wonder if she's going to choke.

But she doesn't. Not even when her eyes start watering as he starts to come down her throat.

And she doesn't spill a goddamn drop.

I'd almost be impressed if I wasn't so annoyed.

Then, as if to complete the absolute absurdity of what I'm witnessing, she lets go of his cock with a pop, sits back on her haunches, and looks up at him with a smugly sweet smile.

That's when I recognize her.

Vanessa Ashford-Price.

Old money, new nose, and zero self-respect.

The holy trinity of Manhattan trust fund princesses.

She licks her lips, panting. "Still think I'm a good girl?"

He just keeps looking down at her with that uninterested expression.

Then, before any of us can react, she spits—full force—and it lands right on the dark red Hermès tie I specifically selected for tonight because it photographs well under gallery lighting.

Great. Just great.

Slowly, she gets up on her feet and saunters past me, passing close enough that I catch the sickly sweetness of her perfume and the unmistakable musk of Slava's cum.

"Fucking asshole," she huffs, and disappears into the gallery.

The click-clack of her stiletto heels stepping away might as well be the sound of a machine-gun blasting away any hope of a good night's sleep in my foreseeable future. Because I know that I'm about to help him bury yet another scandal before it blows up in his face.

Eight months.

Eight months of carefully cultivated reputation management.

Eight months of press releases and strategic charity appearances and "anonymous" tips to lifestyle journalists about his philanthropic nature.

Eight months of building Slava Romanov into someone that city council members want to keep shaking hands with.

And he’s seconds away from turning it into a Page Six headline about blowjobs in public places.

Could you seriously not wait just a couple of more hours?

I imagine, with perfect clarity, wrapping that ruined tie around his throat and pulling it tight until his cold gray eyes finally show something. But what do I want it to be? Surprise? Fear? The dawning realization that he's not the apex predator he thinks he is?

I imagine his hands coming up too late, scrabbling uselessly, his perfect cheekbones going from marble-pale to blue—

"Miss Creminelli."

His deep and unhurried voice is a bass note that vibrates somewhere behind my sternum.

I blink, and the fantasy dissolves.

I do my best to arrange my voice into that of a woman who definitely wasn't just mentally strangling her employer, and give a quick glance back towards where Vanessa is walking.

"That's going to be a problem."

He zips up his pants with the casual efficiency of someone straightening a cufflink. There's no shame. And there's definitely not embarrassment.

"No, it won't," he replies as he zips his pants up without a flicker of acknowledgment that anything unusual has occurred.

"Vanessa Ashford-Price has approximately forty thousand Instagram followers, three ex-stepmoms who hate her, and a well-known history of selling lurid stories to the Post when she wants to piss daddy off.

" I tap my iPad to life. "If she decides that 'I blew New York's most eligible billionaire in an art gallery' makes a good headline for her latest tantrum, then we're looking at a full-blown PR nightmare that will take us weeks to put down. "

"You."

"Excuse me?"

"A full-blown PR nightmare that will take you weeks to put down, Ms. Creminelli."

Okay, fuck you too.

"Yes, me. But the point still stands. She's a liability and—"

He interrupts me again. "No, she isn't."

Those winter-gray eyes drill into mine as he talks.

"Her father's threatened to cut her off now that his company is being investigated for securities fraud. She's running dangerously short on friends that she can count on."

"And do you think this makes you one of them?"

"She won't talk to the press, and you won't have to stay any later at the office than you have to, Ms. Creminelli.

" There's a finality to his tone, and I've worked for him long enough to not try and argue any further.

"Unless you're looking for an excuse to spend some one-on-one time with me after hours. "

And as soon as he says that, a familiar fantasy forces its way into my mind.

Suddenly, all I can think about is me on my hands and knees. Me with my lips wrapped around him. Me looking up at him with my mascara smudged and my pupils wide while he wraps his fist around my hair.

His cock sliding past my lips, heavy and thick with the taste of masculine salt. The smell of his musk filling my lungs. My mouth opening further to take him down, down, down until my eyes water and the only thing I can do is swallow every drop of what he gives me as they roll back into my head.

I force myself to take a step backward. No. No. Absolutely not. I do not get to think about that. I do not get to think about what his hands would feel like in my hair, the taste of his cock on my tongue, or just how deep his voice might drop when he's pleased.

Not after what he’s done to my family.

"Your tie is ruined."

The words come out sharper than I intend.

Good.

Sharp is better than breathless.

He glances down at the Hermès, now decorated with a wet stain that will be visible in every photograph. "So it is."

"This is the third time this month, Mr. Romanov."

“Is it? I’ve lost count.”

I'm already digging into my purse where I keep a spare tie because I learned very early that being Slava Romanov's PR agent means being prepared for every possible bodily fluid.

"Last week it was Judge Morrison's wife in his office. The week before, it was some Instagram model on a Tribeca rooftop. Do you have a voyeurism fetish I should know about? Do you like getting caught? Because if so, I need to factor that into future schedules."

That's when I realize I'm rambling. Filling the silence with words because the alternative is obsessing about what I just imagined.

When I turn back, he's watching me intently. On anyone else, the slight quirk of his lips is a smile.

But on him in this moment, it almost looks like a threat.

"Do you always keep spare ties on hand for me, Ms. Creminelli?"

"I keep spare everything, Mr. Romanov." I hold up the charcoal gray replacement.

"Emergency button kit. Backup phones. Two changes of clothes in the car.

Breath mints, protein bars, and a file of risqué but ultimately harmless pictures to throw the vultures at the gossip rags off your trail.

You hired me to make you look like a respectable businessman.

That means being ready for every conceivable catastrophe. "

Including you, I almost say.

He shrugs out of the ruined tie and drops it on the floor with the casual disregard of someone who has never once cleaned up his own messes. Because that's what people like me are for.

Cleaning up.

Covering up.

Making the monster presentable.

"Well?" He's looking at me expectantly, arms loose at his sides, shirt collar open. "You're the expert."

It takes me a humiliating three seconds to understand what he wants.

"You want me to—"

"Isn’t that why I hired you? Unless you prefer that I walk into the gallery looking like an inconceivable catastrophe."

You unimaginable bastard.

My fingers tighten around the silk. This is fine. This is professional. I've put ties on him before—in the car, backstage at press conferences, and once in a hospital waiting room after a "business associate" had an unfortunate accident.

This isn't intimate. It's not supposed to mean anything.

Except that two minutes ago, someone else was on her knees in front of him, and now he wants me to stand where she stood, looking up at him the same way she did.

He wants my hands on his collar, and his cologne filling my lungs with every breath.

Does he know that I had that fantasy just now? Can he read minds?

Don't be ridiculous, Bella. He's not a vampire, even if he's as good-looking as one. He's just a rich asshole and a murderer.

I could say no. I should say no. I should hand him the tie and walk away and spend the rest of the night not thinking about the way his throat moves when he swallows.

Instead, I step closer.

The air thickens. I can smell him now—something clean and soapy beneath the cologne.

It makes me want to lean in and inhale until I'm drunk on it.

His body radiates heat like a furnace, and I'm suddenly aware of how small this hallway is, how close we're standing, and how the top of my head barely reaches his chin, even in my heels.

Focus.