Sinner's Revenge

by Kim Jones

  “No need. I’m sure those dates are accurate.” She gives me her most threatening look and I have to bite my cheek to keep from smirking.

  “So, you know I’m right,” Cyrus boasts, and I’m surprised he doesn’t give his VP a high fucking five.

  Diem ignores him, then spits out another question. “Why would Shady want to kill your men?” She’s pissed now, although I think it’s more toward me than anyone.

  “Because I killed his brother,” Cyrus answers, his voice deadpan as he looks at me over the top of Diem’s head.

  “So turnabout isn’t fair play?”

  “No. His brother and him killed twelve of my men. We offered a deal, but they refused. They sacrificed one of their own for money. They were warned.”

  My hands fist and I feel Jimbo’s hand come to rest on my shoulder. It’s not to hold me back, because a bulldozer couldn’t do that. It’s a gesture of comfort or warning, I’m just not sure which.

  “I see. And what was the name of this brother you killed?” Diem asks.

  “Dirk.” I close my eyes at the sound of my brother’s name on that motherfucker’s lips.

  “Dirk Dixon, right?”

  He nods, and I feel the air shift in the room. The tension between Death Mob and Sinner’s Creed is unfathomable. But there’s something else too. I look around and notice that the guards seem to stand a little taller. Dorian seems to get a little colder, and Diem’s fingers twitch behind her back.

  “Enough,” Dorian barks, and we watch as he walks across the floor, grabs a member of Death Mob, and pushes him to his knees. Pulling a gun from his back, he walks behind him and puts a bullet behind his right shoulder. The man’s screams echo off the walls as he falls to his side in pain. Then Dorian points the gun at the man’s head and pulls the trigger. The only sound is the ringing in everyone’s ears.

  “Is that how you killed him?” Dorian asks, the sound of his voice wavering slightly. Before Cyrus can speak, the man next to him is shot and falls dead at his feet.

  “Yes!” Cyrus yells, his own voice breaking at the sight of his two dead brothers.

  Dorian tucks the gun behind his jacket before turning and addressing the whole room. “Do any of you know what happens when a man with as much power as me has a son?” Nobody answers, or even breathes, but you can hear the wheels spinning in everyone’s head. “He doesn’t get to live. My brothers, they all died before they could step in for me because they were murdered. Killed by my enemies and by my own. People don’t like change. They are scared of it. So they do what they feel like they have to, to survive.”

  “My children were the light of my life. I prayed every day that my wife would give me a daughter so that my son wouldn’t suffer the same fate as so many others. My prayers were answered, and on the same day my worst fear came true. My wife had twins, a boy and a girl. So I developed a plan. A plan that would change the face of my business. A plan that would allow my daughter to carry on my legacy, because she wouldn’t be seen as a threat and would be allowed to live to an age where she could protect herself. A plan that would give my son life—life provided by a family who took care of their own. A family like yours.” He points to us, and I feel like my heart has been ripped from my chest all over again.

  “My plan worked for so many years. But you,” he says, pointing to Cyrus. “You destroyed that. You didn’t take the life of a member of Sinner’s Creed. You didn’t take the life of Dirk Dixon. You took the life of Dirk Demopolous—my son.”

  My heart hammers against my chest at his admission. I can’t believe my ears. Holy fucking shit. Dirk was Dorian’s son. Diem was Dorian’s daughter. Dirk was Diem’s brother. And I’d been fucking his sister. If he were alive, he’d kill me.

  Dirk’s life was doomed from the beginning. His family couldn’t protect him. And neither could his club.

  A wave of emotions seems to crash through the warehouse. Sinner’s Creed—guilt and heartache. Death Mob—fear and regret. Dorian—grief and failure. I look at Diem, and her eyes hold the same emotion I felt in my heart at Dirk’s death—pain. “Please, hear me out,” Cyrus begs, his hands folding before his chest like the coward he is. “We gave them a choice. Dirk’s death isn’t on my hands. It’s on theirs.” I start toward him, but Jimbo grabs one arm and Chaps grabs the other when I reach for my pistol. Dorian turns toward me, his look unreadable.

  “He killed twelve of my men,” Cyrus continues. “They did nothing to warrant death, but he killed them in cold blood.”

  “You initiated the fight by finding his weakness,” Diem adds. I can hear the grit in her tone, but Dorian’s gaze paralyzes me and I can’t look at her.

  “But we gave them a choice.”

  Dorian holds his hand up, silencing Cyrus, and speaks to me. “Tell me he’s lying.”

  I shove my brother’s hands from my shoulders, and reluctantly they let me go. “The choice was Texas or Dirk’s life. Dirk knew that if Sinner’s Creed lost Texas that the club would fold. As a Sinner’s Creed National he had a say in the decision. He knew the woman he loved was dying and he couldn’t live in a world where she didn’t exist or the club didn’t exist. So he sacrificed himself.” I pause, fighting to control my anger and emotions. I didn’t like speaking about Dirk’s death like it was nothing more than a means to an end. He was a fucking human being. He was my brother. My friend.

  “We couldn’t stop him. And we wouldn’t have tried, because he had more pride and honor than any man I’ve ever met. And what he did was the same thing you’ve done. He protected his family, his empire, and did what he had to do to ensure that his legacy lived on.”

  Dorian’s eyes narrow, his expression more thoughtful, and I’m sure it’s because I’ve said words about his son that make him proud. The regret in his face shows, and I know that’s because I know more about his own son than he did.

  “Why did you take on this battle, knowing that you would lose? That you would die?” His question catches me off guard, but I don’t have to struggle to find an answer. The truth comes as easy as breathing.

  “Because he’s my family.” He nods, but I’m not finished yet.

  “I’m not like you. I’m not a coward.” Jimbo grows still next to me, as Dorian’s eyes narrow further, making them seem colder and deadlier. Chaps calls my name in warning, but I ignore him. My next words will either kill me or save my life. But the outcome doesn’t matter. I’ve got something to say and I’m fucking saying it.

  “I don’t send my family away out of fear. I fight for them. I honor them. I keep my word to them. And either I’ll succeed, or I’ll fucking die trying.”

  I stand tall as he walks toward me. I’m not intimidated by him. If anything, I feel peace. The same peace I felt with Diem. Dorian looks like Dirk. He walks like Dirk. Talks like Dirk. And Diem, she’s Dirk in a woman’s form. This is his blood. His father and his sister. I’d show Dorian respect if he deserved it, but I stand firm behind my words. I’d called him out, and if he kills me, then it will prove that not only is he a coward, but that he is too weak to handle the truth.

  “You’re ballsy. You know that?” he asks, a lethal gleam in his eyes, but I see a hint of respect there too. “But you’re right. I am a coward. I took the easy way out. But one day you will have children of your own, and you will find that sometimes being a coward is worth more than your pride.” He looks at my brothers, taking a moment to stare each of them in the eyes. “I thank you for what you did. And it gives me great honor to know that my son was so well loved and respected. If he was the man you say he was, then I couldn’t be more proud of him than I am in this moment.”

  With a lift of his chin, several men surround the members of Death Mob, knocking them all to their knees. He looks down at Cyrus, who’s fighting hard to keep his shit together. “I’ve waited months to do this. But now that everything is in place, I want you to know what is fixing to happen,” Dor
ian starts, drawing the words out painfully slow. “You are going to die. Your club will cease to exist. Sinner’s Creed will take over your territory and Death Mob will not even be a memory. Killing your men will not bring my son back, but it will bring me great joy.”

  “Dorian,” Jimbo calls, and I take a deep breath as I prepare for what he is fixing to say. “With all due respect, I believe that Cyrus’s life should be taken by us. I believe I’m standing next to a brother who deserves this honor.” As my eyes meet Dorian’s, I think about Dirk. About what this means for his death. But more than that, I think about Diem. She’d just found out who I was. She knows that I’m a killer. That I’m a monster. That I have an incurable disease that blackens my soul. But she’s never watched me pull the trigger. And more than anything, I’m afraid that once she witnesses what I’m capable of, she will never be able to remember me as the man I was with her—only as a monster.

  I drag my gaze to Diem, whose face is completely unreadable. I try to ask her with my eyes what she will think of me, but she gives nothing away. I’ve never seen her so distant. It’s as if she’s trying to remain unattached, especially in this moment.

  “I understand that, Jimbo. But you see, I’ve already promised this to someone else. And I never make a promise that I don’t keep.” Dorian hands the gun to Diem, who offers him a nod. She’s not nervous or shaky and there is no fear in her eyes, only a burning desire for the same thing I’ve been wanting for months—revenge.

  She steps in front of Cyrus without hesitation, then lifts her arm. And just like that—boom, the bullet hits him right between his eyes.

  His body falls limply to the floor. A weight seems to lift off me at the sight. But it’s replaced by a feeling of remorse for Diem. Moments pass before she looks away, and her eyes seek me out. She holds my gaze, telling me everything she can’t say in words. I see her past. I feel her pain. And my soul rejoices with hers.

  I know who she is. I see myself in her eyes. I realize that in this moment, I have nothing to worry about. Diem will not look at me any different. She can’t. Because just like me, my woman, my love, my Diem, is a cold-blooded killer too.

  22

  THE RIDE BACK to Jackpot is silent—and I appreciate the hell out of it. My thoughts come clearer at a hundred miles per hour down an open highway than anywhere else. The first one, I’m still trying to wrap my head around.

  I’m alive.

  I’d woke up this morning thinking it would be my last day on earth. Part of me was relieved. I would finally get that sense of peace I’d always longed for. But fate had different plans. Which reminds me of the second thought that’s in my head and weighs heavy on my heart.

  Diem.

  The Mafiusa.

  She’s not a pharmaceutical sales rep—she’s a fucking drug dealer. Her daddy’s not in prison—he’s the don of the Underground Mafia. She’s not powerful and persuasive and conniving because she’s a bitch—it’s because her life made her that way. And even though she’s not who I thought she was, I still love her. Maybe even more now than I did then.

  She gets me. She understands my lifestyle. I’ll never have to hide anything from her. But in the back of my subconscious, I know that she isn’t like me. She’s more than me. She’s my fucking boss.

  I wait for the blow to my ego that never comes. If anything, I’m turned on by her authority. I was in love with the most powerful woman in organized crime. Yesterday, she was in love with me too. I just hope like hell that doesn’t change.

  The club is still in shock over the turn of events. Relieved, thankful, nervous, and skeptical. But above all, we’re proud that justice has finally been served. We’re in Jackpot, at the clubhouse, on the patio. We’re not finished smoking our first welcome home cigarette when Chaps finally asks what’s on everybody’s mind.

  “So, what’s up with you and Dorian’s daughter?”

  All eyes turn to me, waiting for the juicy gossip like a bunch of women in a beauty shop. I feel a heaviness in my chest at the mention of her. Truth is, I don’t know what’s up. After she pulled that trigger, I wanted nothing more than to go to her. But, she’d warned me off with a look, then left with Dorian.

  “I saw those looks she was giving you. You hit that or something?” Chaps pushes, and I level him with a look.

  “Mind your own fucking business,” I warn before stomping back inside. At the bar, I can’t seem to do anything to calm my nerves. I become more restless by the minute. Downing some shots, I wait impatiently for the liquor to help numb my brain, but nothing is working. Rookie takes a seat next to me, offering his silence as comfort and surprisingly, it helps.

  “What if what we had wasn’t real?” I ask, loud enough for only him to hear.

  “It was real. Trust me.” Rookie shoots a wink to one of the topless bartenders who hands him a baggie and some rolling papers. “Just give it a little time. Looks like she’s gonna need some.”

  “No shit she’s gonna need some. She’s in the fucking Mafia, Rookie.”

  He shrugs, focused on his task at hand. “And you’re an outlaw. But there is good news.” He licks the blunt before rolling it tightly and handing it to me. “You can forget all that shit I said about it not working. Now she knows everything.” He claps me on my back, striking a lighter. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it can work. And three hits later, my problems with Diem are a distant memory.

  Soon, the celebration that we’re not only still alive, but now over the entire U.S., is in full swing. Monica was told to call in some extra help for the next few days, and chapter members from all around were pouring in by the minute.

  It’s an all-night party and in the early hours of the next morning, we’re still going strong. The women are topless, the liquor is chilled, and the music is good. But my buzz is fading and Diem is resurfacing in my mind.

  Aware that something is bothering me, Rookie attempts to snap me out of my depression. “Maybe you should call her.”

  “I’m not calling her,” I snap, not intending to be a dick but acting like one.

  “Fine,” he says, giving me a few minutes of silence before coming up with another suggestion to ease my troubles. “Want me to get Monica to take you out back?”

  “Fuck no,” I groan.

  Rookie laughs and slides me a shot. “Just offering.”

  Moments later, I notice that the noise has died down significantly. Rookie elbows me and I turn to see six men wearing suits standing just inside the door.

  “Can I do anything for y’all?” Monica purrs in her fake southern accent.

  “Yeah. Put a fucking shirt on.” Diem emerges from the crowd of men and scans the room until she finds me. Her eyes narrow and I notice that another one of the topless girls is standing across from me with her natural DDs propped up on the counter. “Do you bitches not have clothes?”

  Damn, I love when she’s pissed. She looks so fucking sexy in that little red dress that I just want to rip to shreds. Then I want to throw her on this bar and fuck her in front of everybody and let them know that this one is mine. I’m sexually frustrated, hanging by a thin rope, and she’s doing nothing but being the infuriating, delicious goddess she always is.

  I want her more than ever. The look she’s giving me tells me she wants me too. The electricity crackles between us. Everyone around us is forgotten. If they’re looking, I don’t notice. All I see is her. Fire blazes in her eyes. She exudes power. She’s a walking, talking, bitching, underboss Mafia fucking queen. And until she tells me different, she’s mine.

  I hold her gaze as I stand, telling her I want to kiss her. Lick her. Fuck her until nothing else matters. Then I walk away from the crowd and toward the bedrooms at the back of the clubhouse—knowing damn well that she’ll follow.

  Over the noise, I can hear the click of her heels. She wants me. She wants this. She needs me and I fucking need her too. Standing just inside the
door, I wait for her to appear. When she does, I jerk her in before slamming it shut and pushing her against the wall.

  She grips the back of my neck, pulling my mouth down to hers. I groan at the feel of her warm tongue brushing over mine. My hands move up her hips, pulling her dress around her waist and ripping her panties from her body.

  There are no words. No pleas, demands, games, deals, challenges . . . No Mafia, clubs, daddies, brothers, goons, or whores. It’s just me and her and the desire to fuck like crazy animals—just like we first did, and exactly how we want it.

  The closest thing to us is a dresser. I lift her on it before pulling my dick from my jeans. She whimpers at the sight of it. I drag my fingers down my tongue, wetting them before rubbing them across her pussy that is already drenched.

  “Fuck,” I growl, lifting her from the dresser and sinking my cock inside her. Her breath catches in her throat as I fill her completely. Her eyes widen with shock and pleasure and before she can adapt, I’m pulling out and driving in again.

  “Is this how you want me to fuck you?” I growl, knowing she won’t be able to answer. Her moans are guttural. Her eyes roll back in her head. Those sexy heels are scarring my ass. And I fucking love it.

  I fuck her against the wall, on the dresser, then throw her on the bed, roll her to her knees, slap her ass, and fuck her from behind. My hands grip her ass, opening her up completely so I can see every inch of her. I want to kiss her everywhere. I want to put my tongue on every inch of her body, starting with her pussy. I want to devour her until she is moaning and coming from every place I touch her with my mouth, my hands, and my cock.

  Flipping her back, I lift her again in my arms, wanting to feel the weight of her on me. Slamming her back against the wall, I dig my fingers into her thighs—leaving my mark. Scarring her and reminding her I’ve been here. I fuck her like I hate her. Like I’m punishing her for lying to me. For not being who she said she was. And she gives it back to me tenfold.

  She’s pulling my hair, biting my neck, moving her hips with mine. Her nails claw at my skin—she’s trying to hurt me. She wants me to fuck her like I hate her, because right now, she just wants to hate me too. She hates me for lying. Hates me for living. Hates me for giving her exactly what she needs. And hates herself for wanting it.