Heartless Sinner (Empire of Sinners #5)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Scarlett

The hotel bar is a portrait of elegance with gilded trim, polished floors, and leather this and that. Too perfect . Like it’s daring me to mess up.

I rest my hand on the cool surface of the bar and take a deep, deep breath, trying to soothe the hurricane churning inside me.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I take three more breaths, hold each one then release them slowly, imagining that I’m letting go of my worries one at a time.

God, I wish it were that simple. I’m so nervous I fear I may combust.

I feel like I’ve been sucked into some wacky alternate dimension where everything is wrong.

This morning at eight, I had to message a number Dad gave me before I left.

Within the hour, my plane tickets and instructions were emailed to me, letting me know where I was supposed to go and what I was supposed to do.

I was also given another phone number to message when I left Denver, then when I landed in New York. I did both.

I got to the hotel and came in here for a drink to take the edge off the situation. The job starts tomorrow. I have twenty-four hours to complete it beginning from midnight tonight.

Apparently, that’s how long the chip will be in the vault—which I got the password for.

I feel like I’ve been sucked into a spy movie. Something like James Bond or Mission Impossible . Except this is real. And I knew from the moment I got involved that I was in danger.

But it’s not like I could have left my father to deal with it. Not like Johnny— that bastard .

This whole situation shows that he never cared about us. If he did, I wouldn’t be here, and Dad wouldn’t be at home now unable to work because the beating last night fractured his bad leg.

There was no way he could have done this job. He was in so much pain, neither of us slept. We went to the hospital the moment the sun came up, where he was given painkillers and a cast.

I keep wondering what else will go wrong.

I take a swig of my drink and enjoy the sweetness. I can’t remember what the bartender called it. It was his own concoction. Whatever it is, it’s giving me that gentle buzz I need.

Maybe I’ll have one more drink before I head to my room.

I know I won’t be able to sleep, but I’ll try. Then I’ll get up early and try to figure out how I’ll steal the chip.

I’m supposed to message that number again when I make my move so they can switch off the surveillance. It’s should be a straightforward in-and-out job just like Dad said. It’s just that…

Something doesn’t feel right. Something outside the obvious of trying to steal from a mafia boss.

Now that I’ve had time to think, I’ve put things together in my mind, and none of it sits well with me. The ominous feeling has wriggled its way to the pit of my stomach like a snake, the weight making it feel like thin glass that may shatter.

Dare I even acknowledge this, but things— the job —feels too easy. Too easy for a payout of four hundred thousand dollars.

It feels like I’m selling my soul.

I keep thinking …what if this comes back to haunt me one day when I least expect it?

I’m praying that doesn’t happen. And that perhaps this job is something these people needed someone like me— or Johnny — to carry out because they couldn’t do it themselves for whatever reason.

I’ll never be sure of anything but I have to believe whatever I need to right now. Just to get through the next two days.

No matter what happens, I can’t screw this up. That includes not getting caught.

I have to visualize the ending I want to this nightmare. So, when I get back to Colorado, all I have to do is hand over the chip to the address I was given, get the money, then pay Anton.

Knowing he’ll be back in the US soon is unnerving enough, but I’m hoping he’ll leave me and Dad alone once the money is paid.

It's wishful thinking, I know, but I’m going to hope anyway. I’m not the girl he left behind. I may be a shadow of the version of myself before I knew him, but at least I’m not an addict anymore.

I still can’t believe I was ever one. But I was.

Me , who was so careful in college when most of my friends were getting stoned every night.

I didn’t even get into drugs on my own accord. That was all Anton’s doing.

The year before we broke up, he got wasted—and high on cocaine—and beat the shit out of me when he thought I’d cheated on him with his best friend.

The bastard broke my arm in two places. When he sobered up and realized the truth, he swore to never hurt me again. I was so blind I believed him.

I got opioids for the pain and benzodiazepines for my anxiety after his attack.

But then I got severely addicted to them because Anton bribed my doctors into prescribing them for me beyond my treatment.

For almost a year, he’d slip those pills and other drugs into my food and drinks to drug me. It was his way of controlling and keeping me with him whenever he got violent.

In the end the violence was nothing compared to being a prisoner, trapped with him and trapped in my mind.

During that time I couldn’t get a job. I was always either off my face or sleeping way beyond normal. I thought I was sick or depressed because of losing the job on All My Years.

Thanks to Lucy, I discovered the truth after I appeared to have overdosed on one bad combo Anton had given me. I ended up in the ER, where they conducted tests and found out what was wrong with me. Lucy also found Anton’s stash of pills and figured out what he’d done to me that whole time.

It was only luck that the fed’s investigation gave me a way out.

Anton had to leave the country, but by then, I was highly addicted and needed professional help.

I spent six months in rehab and an additional two months in therapy. So, no, I don’t ever want to see Anton again.

I lift the glass to my lips and drink, savoring the rum in the cocktail as it warms my throat. Most of the cocktail was sweet, but this part is sharp and searing.

It’s so strange to be drinking by myself in a bar full of people, let alone be here in New York and not see Lucy. I’ll never tell her I was here. She’d never forgive me if she knew I came all the way here and didn’t see her.

Laughter pulls my attention, and I glance toward the cluster of men near the corner booth. They’re deep in conversation, glasses raised in celebration, but my focus locks onto one figure. A handsome Italian man with broad shoulders, a sharp suit, and dark hair slicked back.

Is he Micah Delarosa?

He could be.

What if he is him?

My heart kicks into overdrive, each beat slamming against my ribs like a

warning.

It’s crazy that I have no idea what Micah looks like. I foolishly tried to search for him on Google. While I found the name there were no pictures anywhere. And no social media links. It’s no surprise given who he is. Or what he is.

The only things I know about him are that he’s Italian and part of the Delarosa family who own Delarosa Industries and this luxurious five star hotel that looks like something from an elegant movie set. I’ve never been anywhere this fancy before. It’s a shame I can’t enjoy it.

When another two Italian men join the man I’m staring at, I look away, deciding I can’t keep staring. It’s silly to look for the man I’m here to steal from.

It’s also silly to assume that every Italian I see is part of the Delarosa family. They could simply be regular guests here. Like me—at least the part I’m playing.

This has to be another joke from the universe. I want an acting job, so I get to play myself in the biggest role of my life.

My hand turns clammy around the glass, so I down the rest of my drink.

I think I’ll just grab a glass of ice water before I head back up to my room. I don’t think I should be around people in this state of nerves.

Releasing the heavy breath burning my lungs, I set the glass down on the counter. Before I can even think to look up, a glass of water with ice cubes inside and a slice of lemon hooked on the rim slides across the counter to me.

The bartender who’s been serving me has been great, knowing exactly what I’ve wanted. It’s cheered me up.

I lift my head to tell him as such, but when my gaze locks with a pair of bright hazel eyes and the sculpted face of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life, I freeze.

My lips part and although I know I run the risk of seeming rude, all I can do is stare up at him. I don’t think I can be blamed for that, though. He has the type of perfection that compels you to stop whatever you’re doing—even breathing—to look at him.

His olive skin speaks of his Italian heritage and his jet-black hair is styled but has that sexy just-got-out-of-bed look. The flicker of a smile dances across his lips, drawing my attention to its sensual shape and the sharp cut of his jaw and killer cheekbones that looks like they could slice glass.

His brutal beauty is the kind of handsome that belongs in Renaissance paintings of fallen angels and stories about warriors from the past.

Rigid muscles ripple beneath his black button-down shirt, showcasing wide shoulders and thick forearms with a fine dusting of dark hair weaving alongside inky tattoos of scorpions and Japanese characters. And he’s tall. A least a foot taller than my five feet and four inches.

How long has he been standing here? Right in front of me.

More importantly, how the hell could I have been so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice him? He gives the term sexy bartender a new meaning.

Lucy is always sending me pictures of the guys she hooks up with, many of which are ice hockey or football players—she has a thing for athletes.

None of them come close to this guy.

Liquid fire that I shouldn’t be feeling heats up my body, and I realize I’m still staring. But he hasn’t taken his eyes off me either.

“Hey, there.” His voice is sinfully sexy and as deep as the bass keys on a piano.

I have to think first before I speak. “Hi.”

“I guessed you wanted water. Was I right?” The smirk on his face sets me on fire.

“Um, yes. You were. And thank you.” I take a few sips of the water, appreciating the coolness as it hits the back of my throat. “How… did you know?”

“Intuition. Or maybe I’m hoping you’re here by yourself and you’ll join me upstairs for your next drink.”

Holy shit. He wants me to join him for a drink.

Oh God. What do I say?

Wait ... this is simple. I should say no. There is no question or choice here because I’m here for business. Not pleasure. I’m way too nervous to trust myself not to burst into tears and ruin everything.

That aside, this man is a whole other level of gorgeousness I’ve never experienced—honestly way too good looking to be a bartender. He should have some supermodel on his arm. Not me.

I just about managed to scrub myself up to look halfway decent to travel. I still look nothing like myself from a few years back.

“Silence.” He smiles, taking note of my hesitation.

“I was just going to head back to my room and call it a night,” I reply with a little smile.

“At eight thirty on a Friday night?”

Damn. When he puts it that way, I sound lame, but I have to be sensible. “It’s been a long day.”

“What if I won’t take no for an answer?” His voice sweeps across my skin like a gentle breeze, and the way he’s looking at me does sinful things to my body. The kind of things that has heat flushing down from my core to my thighs. “What if I’m so attracted to you, I’m not ready to let you go for the night?”

I freeze, my face turning bright red and my throat drying as if someone filled it with sand.

I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone so blatant. And fascinating. The thought of turning him down seems like the antithesis of what I’m supposed to do. Or what I want.

Should I say yes, then?

I was only going to bed to avoid worrying. It suddenly seems a shame to waste this moment when I have a handsome stranger flirting with me.

I should say no, but what if I pretended for the next few hours that I wasn’t in danger and that everything was fine? What if I just forgot the problems and lived for a moment of reprieve?

Could I really allow myself to do that?

Maybe I can… just for tonight .

“I suppose I could join you for a drink. But aren’t you working?” I glance at the other bartenders who are taking orders as more people approach the bar in groups.

Mr. Dreamy—as I've dubbed him in my mind—gives me a disarmingly charming smile. “I don’t think the manager will mind.” As if to confirm his assumption, he nods to the previous bartender who was serving me and he responds with a subtle dip of his chin.

I give him a little smile when he looks back at me. “Okay. Then I guess I can join you for a drink.”

He looks me up and down, his eyes roaming over my face with a knowing look in them, as if he knew my answer wouldn’t have been anything other than ‘yes.’

I blush but try to compose myself.

He walks around the bar and up to me, showing off the rest of his toned, athletic physique. There’s no way he’s a simple bartender. A guy this good looking would never put so much effort into looking this good to work a bar.

“This way, bellezza.”

Bellezza— beautiful in Italian. I don’t know much Italian, but that’s one of the few words I know. And I like it.

Mr. Dreamy waves his hand toward the wide sweeping stairs in the corner, and I stand, feeling like a little bird next to him.

He places a hand to the small of my back; the simple touch makes my heart race.

Scarlett, what are you getting yourself into?

This little rendezvous with the hot bartender may not be a good idea, but I’m going anyway.

The man next to me feels like a drug taking the edge off my stress.

That can’t be a bad thing. Right?