Page 23 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Roman

Ahmet’s voice crackles through the phone, brittle and forced. “We’ll give you a quarter of our weapons,” he says. “The best piles. No damage, no tracking. Clean shit.”

I lean back, staring at the ceiling.

“And all the coke and fent we’ve got coming in the next three months. You take it. All of it. We’ll also throw in Istanbul’s east route. ”

Silence stretches. He’s choking on it.

“This is the best we can offer, Roman,” he says finally. I can hear the shame in his voice, the fucking surrender.

Good.

“I’d rather eat glass than touch anything your crew lays their hands on,” I say.

“Roman—”

“No,” I snap. “You want me to take your filth? You want to crawl into my lap and beg for mercy?”

He doesn’t answer. Because that’s exactly what this is. Crawling. Groveling. Bleeding power at my feet. I should seal the deal, I got exactly what I wanted. They are on their knees, offering me what will drain them dry, just to have their little princess back.

But I don’t.

Instead, I say, “I’ll think about it.”

“That ambush wasn’t sanctioned,” he says. “Stupid move. We never wanted war. Kid got assigned a new seat up top and thought he’d swing his dick around. I’ll send him to you. Let you handle it how you want. You want to shoot him in the head? Fine. I won’t ask questions.”

Like I need his permission. I stare at the lighter she left on my desk. It still smells faintly like her fingers. My thumb clicks it open, flame catching.

“We’re compromising now, Roman. That’s what this is. This—” his voice tightens, “—this is the best deal you're gonna get. You turn it down, it all blows up. You know what that means.”

Their threats mean nothing.

“I want my daughter back,” he adds.

I close the lighter. The flame dies. He wants his little girl returned, as if she hasn’t already crawled under my skin and fucked up my discipline.

“I’ll let you know,” I say, hanging up on him, when what I should’ve done is ended this—they wrung themselves dry, and it’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for. But I didn’t. And it’s because of her.

That girl. That goddamn girl.

It’s like she doesn’t realize she’s locked inside a house with a man who’s done things that would make her blood freeze. She should be scared. Instead, she bakes me a fucking cake. She doesn’t understand what I am. What I’ve done. She sees some fucked-up version of me that doesn’t exist.

But I let her sing.

I let her light those candles.

I let her be soft in a house built on blood and broken bones.

And worse—I want it. I want all of it, like a starving man staring down something he’ll never deserve. I’m not the kind of man women sing for. I’ve gone thirty-six years without my birthday being celebrated. And yet—she gave me one. It makes something in my chest short-circuit.

Because how the hell do you process being seen without fear for the first time? Just enough to make you want more?

I should have told her to take her pity cake and shove it. But I let myself feel, just for a second.

And now I want more.

More of her voice. More of her hands rummaging through my drawers, searching for candles. More of her watching me like she sees a man under all this fucking ruin. I’m a bastard. I’ve done things that rot the soul from the inside out.

And I don’t know why the fuck I’m letting myself want this much.

A knock at the door. My men know better than to come up here without cause.

“Come in,” I say, voice flat.

Leo steps in.

“What is it?” I ask.

He holds out a box—wrapped in gold-foiled paper, a velvet ribbon tied around it.

“The Turks sent it,” he says. “Peace offering.”

“What’s in it?” I ask, though I don’t care.

“Didn’t check. Thought you’d want to do the honors.” He puts it down on the table and leaves. I’m alone with my thoughts again. She was never supposed to stay this long anyway. Just leverage.

Something in me—something rotten and buried—wants to see what else she’ll do. What more she’ll pull from me. What else she’ll drag up from the pit I’ve spent years burying beneath blood and control and brutality.

I walk past the gold box, ignoring it completely. I don’t give a shit about the Turks or their ribbon-wrapped surrender.

I’ll keep her for a week. Maybe two.

Then I’ll do the right thing.