Page 3 of Sin in My Inbox (Sexting Spark #1)
Dmitri
The smell of rotting wood, cheap tobacco smoke, and that thick, sickly-sweet metallic stench—blood. These scents were as familiar to me as my own cologne. This was the perfume of my world, the dark world where I lived and breathed.
A sickly pale light filtered down from the single dust-covered bulb hanging overhead, casting two trembling shadows at my feet like twisted ghosts.
Two men knelt on the rough concrete floor, hands zip-tied behind their backs, the plastic restraints cutting deep into their flesh.
Their faces were a canvas of bruises and dried blood, lips cracked and split, eyes unfocused with nothing left but pure, primal terror.
Sweat mixed with blood dripped from their trembling jawlines, hitting the dusty ground and leaving small, dark stains.
I sat in an equally dust-covered wooden chair, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting casually on my knees.
A nearly spent cigar was pinched between my fingers, its red ember glowing and dimming in the murky light.
The acrid bite of nicotine barely cut through the nauseating sweetness of blood in the air, but it helped. Marginally.
"Last time," my voice was quiet, "Whose orders?"
The younger guy on the left jerked like he'd been electrocuted, his blood-crusted lips working soundlessly before words finally tumbled out. "B-boss, we really—we really don't know, they came to us, man. They were w-wearing masks—"
"Came to you?" I let out a soft chuckle, cigar ash drifting down. I stood up, my polished black shoes clicking against the cement with crisp echoes.
I walked over and looked down at them. In their fear-dilated pupils, I could see my own cold reflection, but their trembling wouldn't even ripple the surface of my heart.
These past few weeks, carefully planned deals had been going to shit left and right.
Warehouses mysteriously catching fire. Transport routes for crucial shipments getting intercepted with surgical precision.
I fucking hated this feeling—hated being played for a fool.
"Don't know?" I repeated, my tone as flat as if I were discussing the weather forecast. "Eight-figure merchandise, they come to you, and you just took the job without knowing jack shit? Then, without knowing anything, you let the goods get seized by the cops right under your noses?"
My voice dropped to freezing. "Nick, what do you think they take me for?"
My assistant Nick, who'd been standing silent as a shadow in the corner, stepped forward. The guy was built like a brick shithouse, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite with a dull chisel. He bowed slightly, his voice low. "Boss, they clearly think you're a pushover."
"A pushover?" I rolled the word around in my mouth, the corner of my lips curving into a smile that held no warmth whatsoever. I flicked the cigar to the ground and crushed the glowing ember under my polished shoe tip with practiced precision.
"I'm busy, Nick," I said flatly, my gaze settling back on the two shaking masses of flesh on the floor. "Apparently, you gentlemen have seriously miscalculated. My patience is limited, and you've just exhausted every last drop."
The moment those words left my mouth, the air in the basement seemed to crystallize into something solid and suffocating. Both kneeling men jerked their heads up, their eyes exploding with the desperate, dying-animal wails of the truly fucked.
"No! Boss! Please!" Their pleas came out broken and hoarse, thick with snot and tears.
I didn't spare them another glance. Just tilted my head slightly toward Nick and gave the barest nod of my chin.
Nick's movements were always swift and clean. No unnecessary words, just two muffled "pop-pop" sounds, followed by the heavy thud of bodies hitting concrete.
"Clean it up," I said, my voice returning to its usual flat calm. The air is filled with the smell of blood, but weirdly enough, that scent actually helped my wound-tight nerves relax a fraction.
Zero tolerance for deception and betrayal. That was my order, my law.
I turned and headed for the stairs leading back to street level, Nick's footsteps silent behind me.
Pushing open the heavy steel door, cool air rushed in, carrying the city's signature cocktail of exhaust fumes and a rare hint of something clean.
A sleek, matte-black Bentley sat waiting by the warehouse entrance.
Nick smoothly pulled open the door, and I slid into the back seat, rubbing my temples.
The car glided seamlessly into traffic. City neon bled through the tinted windows, painting shifting patterns of light and shadow across my expressionless face. The windows blocked most of the noise, leaving only the engine's low, steady purr.
"Boss," Nick's voice came through the partition, clear despite the soundproofing.
"Next up is heading back to headquarters to handle the North district books—they've been calling twice asking for updates.
Also, Thomas arranged your date for tomorrow night's gala.
Miss Ella Solovyeva has checked into the Aisley Resort's Presidential Suite 302 as requested.
The gown's been delivered, everything's ready to go. "
A date? Ella? I leaned back against the soft headrest, closing my eyes and massaging my aching temples.
Thomas, my younger brother, had this annoying habit of being way too invested in my personal life.
The kid was constantly throwing different women at me, claiming it was all about helping me "relax. "
Those perfectly made-up women with their obvious agendas, all approaching me with the same calculated submission. They looked at me with those careful, pleasing smiles and scheming eyes—like beautiful mannequins in a shop window. Pretty, but soulless.
Not that I minded their attention, whatever their motivations might be.
After all, my marriage prospects were a constant source of fascination for the old bastards in the organization. Rather than deal with the dangerous wife candidates they kept shoving my way, playing the playboy was infinitely easier.
Aisley Resort. At least Thomas had picked somewhere convenient this time.
Exhaustion hit me like a freight train. Days of dealing with these bizarre attacks had worn my nerves thin as wire.
Even though death and betrayal were old friends by now, I craved something stimulating, something to temporarily numb the constant buzz in my brain. Maybe alcohol. Maybe something else.
I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up, clean and stark, without a single unnecessary social media app cluttering the interface. I opened my messages and found the number Thomas had sent me, saved under the cold, impersonal name "Ella."
Fuck it. I should at least make polite conversation. I tapped out a quick message.
Me: how's the dress?
The car cruised smoothly toward downtown. I closed my eyes, planning to catch a few minutes of rest. But unexpectedly, my phone buzzed.
That fast? I frowned slightly, annoyed at being disturbed, and opened the message.
What I saw made my pupils contract instantly .
It was a photo.
A photo that made my breath catch in my throat.
The lighting was dim, like it had been taken through a mirror.
The mirror reflected a woman's silhouette—graceful, tantalizing.
She was facing away from the camera, head turned slightly to reveal the elegant curve of her neck.
But what she was wearing—that wasn't any kind of gown I'd been expecting.
It was a black lace nightgown that screamed pure, unadulterated seduction.
The lace was intricate and delicate, like a spider's web wrapped around a young, vibrant body.
The straps were two thin black ribbons tied in a small bow at the nape of her neck.
The hem barely skimmed her ass, highlighting the full, rounded curves, while her long, straight legs gleamed like polished ivory in the low light.
The black lace against her pale skin created a striking visual impact—an almost innocent kind of sexy.
The mirror was slightly blurred, so I couldn't make out her face clearly, just a hazy silhouette, but that somehow made it even more mysterious and provocative.
My breathing hitched for just a fraction of a second.
What the hell kind of woman had Thomas set me up with this time? This bold? This direct? Responding to a routine question about a gown with a fucking lingerie shot? This wasn't a hint—this was basically an engraved invitation to sin.
This was completely outside my expectations.
Sitting in my position, women who wanted to climb into my bed were a dime a dozen, but they usually went for carefully orchestrated "coincidental" meetings and subtle touches.
This kind of direct, scorching invitation was rare as hell.
What did she want? Money? Status? Or was she just looking to latch onto my power?
But whatever her game was, she'd succeeded. This unconventional boldness had successfully awakened nerves that had been numbed by blood and betrayal. My fingertip unconsciously traced across the cold phone screen, as if I could touch that silky lace and warm skin through the glass.
My eyes dropped to the text below the image.
Ella: looks goo d
Interesting. I quickly typed back:
Me: keep going
I hit send and stared at the screen, smiling. This unexpected little game of stimulation—I was curious to see just how far this Ella woman was willing to play.
Almost immediately, a new message popped up.
Ella: keep going? what do you mean?
Through the screen, I could practically feel that fake-innocent probing, loaded with hooks.
I leaned back in my seat, body relaxing as a familiar, long-missed sense of controlling the game's rhythm surged through me. This cat-and-mouse feeling was infinitely more entertaining than those boring business dinners.
Me: what do u think? dressed like that, sending me pics like this. smart girls know the answer