Page 63 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Forty-Seven

“Revenge proves its own executioner.”

― John Ford

Théo

A procession of pale phantoms swept through the Harper mansion, every guest draped in white like marble statues brought to life.

The halls bled roses, ivory petals spilling across the floors, as if the estate had been dressed for a fucking funeral held in a cathedral of gold.

I stayed in the corner silently, watching her dance. That white silk dress hugged her waist perfectly. Her red hair was twisted up, neck bare, spine straight.

She looked so beautiful it made my chest ache.

But tonight wasn’t about her. It was about finding the bastard who had been lurking in her shadow for two fucking years.

After Lazzio confirmed that the guy from the security footage was who we’d expected, I’d started digging. Tracked his IP. Went through his finances, public records, and criminal file.

Everything was clean.

I’d hacked his laptop, tapped into his webcam, watched every inch of that room. He was never there. Just stale air and a glowing screen. No posters of her. No photos. Nothing that screamed obsession.

And that’s what made my blood run cold.

He wasn’t stalking her because he was a fan. It was something else.

Something darker.

I knew that he would be here tonight. I had a fucking gut feeling.

“He’s here,” Lazzio said beside me, eyes locked on his wife as she wove through the crowd and hugged Scarlett.

He offered me a glass of champagne. I didn’t take it.

He blended into the scene in white too. I was the only one out of sync, draped in black, hands clenched at the top of my bulletproof vest. The word SECURITY stretched across my chest.

“Where?” I asked, eyes scanning the balconies.

“Third floor. I saw him with Scarlett’s father. They talked. They shook hands.”

My jaw tightened. “Think her father’s trying to get her killed?”

Lazzio choked on his drink. “Jesus. No. He’s a piece of shit, sure. But he still loves her. Buried under all that cash and macho bullshit, he gives a fuck. Just not in any way that matters.”

Before I could answer, a rough voice slid between us.

“Well, well. My favorite uptight men in all of New York.”

Alexsei Romaniev. Dripping in white silk, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth, vodka glinting in his glass.

I hadn’t seen him in over a year. He’d taken off with his wife and the twins for some kind of road trip across the country. Showed up a few times while Scarlett was in rehab.

I kept my distance. No one needed to know I was there the whole damn time, buried in the walls.

“Look what I dragged in,” he said, grinning. “Had to bribe the bastard with top-shelf vodka, only to find out his wife already planned to come. Lost twenty grand on this fucker.”

Mikha?l Volkov stepped up beside him and rolled his eyes.

White suit crisp. Posture loose. Eyes Cold.

The kind of man who slit throats just to watch the pattern the blood made.

“How’s Sawyer?” Alexsei asked. “Haven’t heard from him in a while.”

I shrugged. “Handed me half the company last year. Said he was tired.”

Bastard was in the Bahamas, sipping cocktails with his wife, living the dream.

Mikha?l nodded, barely. Then he leaned against the wall beside us, eyes drifting until they landed on Sofiya, his wife.

She was busy laughing with the girls.

Apparently, the two had met at a gas station and later moved to Moscow. She left him to work in New York, and he’d spent months crossing the country to get her back.

At least that was the version people liked to tell.

But with a fucker like him, as head of the Silas, I was sure the real story was a hell of a lot darker than any rumor floating around.

Lazzio looked up from his glass. “No kids tonight?”

The Russians shook their heads.

“Caia’s friend Valeria has them for the weekend.”

Mikha?l threw back the rest of his vodka. “Mine are in Moscow with my mother-in-law.”

The orchestra played some waltz that sounded expensive. A sea of white dresses spun across marble floors as the scent of roses and champagne clung to the air, sweet enough to rot your teeth.

The idea of kids had never stuck in my head. They screamed too much, broke too many things, needed too damn much. I never saw the point.

Scarlett moved through the crowd like the world belonged to her, and everyone else was just lucky to watch. Her laugh cracked through the music, bright and raw, and I swore every man in the room looked.

But she didn’t look back. She burned too brightly to see the ones catching fire in her orbit.

Including me.

And for a second, the thought of a smaller version of her didn’t make me want to run. It almost made me ache for it.

Which was fucking terrifying .

“What about you, LeRoy?” Alexsei asked, sipping his vodka. “Must be hell having a job that chains you to a superstar’s shadow twenty-four seven. No time to jerk off, let alone rest.”

Lazzio snorted into his drink, casting me a look. “Ignore him. He blackmailed his wife into marrying him by threatening to kill her grandma. Real romantic shit.”

Alexsei shrugged, unbothered. “If I’d waited for a yes, I’d still be fucking waiting.”

“You’re one to talk, Lazzio,” Mikha?l said, grinning. “Didn’t your wife hold you at gunpoint?”

“She did,” Lazzio said, toasting the memory. “Got hard the second the safety clicked off. Married her the next month.”

“And you,” Alexsei turned to Mikha?l, “didn’t you kidnap your wife and keep her locked up for a month?”

He chuckled. “She once held a knife to my throat. Now she cries if I don’t kiss her goodnight. Pretty sure I got Stockholmed.”

I watched them all, these well-dressed psychos with wives too sharp to break and kids who would probably rule countries one day.

And I stood there, the only bastard in the room who couldn’t reach for what was already mine.

Not in front of them.

Not where eyes could see and mouths would talk.

My eyes swept the room again until they locked onto the person I’d been waiting for.

Lazzio followed my line of sight, gave a small nod, then bumped his shoulder into mine as I moved.

Three of my men were planted inside tonight, blending in with the suits and smug faces, all focused on one thing: keeping Scarlett safe while I handled the filth crawling in from the edges.

He slipped out of the ballroom, took the long way through the marble hallway, then ducked into the pool area. Kept going until he stopped at the balcony. The city sprawled beneath him, the sun bleeding out across Los Angeles.

“I knew you’d follow me.”

My lips curved.

Good.

The bastard knew exactly what I was.

“Pretty fucking stupid of you to show up here, Kensley.”

Travis Kensley.

British cameraman.

He’d made a career out of staying behind the scenes, always close enough to watch without drawing attention. I pulled every file I could find.

Every shoot, every project, every credit roll.

Nothing ever put him near Scarlett. Her videos, her campaigns, her films. He was never part of any of it. He had no place around her, but somehow, he kept circling closer.

But something stank.

After weeks of digging, I found him listed in the credits of The Afterlife , hidden deep. A film led by Luke Conrad, the same golden boy who’d died choking on his own vomit in Scarlett’s hotel room. The same man whose family had tried to put her in jail.

When Lazzio confirmed it was Kensley who’d broken into her condo, I’d traced his IP. Found him already crawling around Los Angeles like a rat.

And now he was fucking here.

Not for long.

He turned to face me, his back pressed against the glass balcony.

I let out a low hum.

“My gun’s already warm, Kensley. You’ve got two fucking seconds to tell me why you’ve been sniffing around her, or I’ll shove it so far down your throat you’ll be shitting bullets.”

He let out a shaky scoff, but his hands betrayed him. Small, nervous things. The glasses slid down his nose as he looked up at me, blinking quickly.

Barely five-foot-seven. Frail. Skin like paper, shoulders curled in.

But it wasn’t fear of dying.

It was worse.

It was the look of a man who already lived like he was buried.

“I think you already know,” he snorted. “But I’ll spell it out for you. Luke didn’t deserve what happened. He was the kindest man I’ve ever met. The sweetest. And everything burned the second he met her.”

His lips trembled.

“Scarlett ruined him. She’s the reason he’s dead.”

His gaze drifted to the sky, his mouth twisted, bitter and trembling.

“He was the love of my life. And now he’s dead in the ground while she walks red carpets and pretends it never happened. Why the fuck does she get to move on when he can’t?”

He was the love of my life.

There it fucking was.

It wasn’t about grief, but revenge.

Behind us, the party kept pulsing. Music thumped through the speakers, champagne splashing in crystal glasses while laughter echoed off the water. The pool glowed a soft blue, catching the shimmer of sequins and cigarette ash.

I didn’t take my eyes off him.

“If you touch so much as a fucking hair on her head, I’ll?—”

He laughed before I could finish, low and bitter, like the sound had been sitting in his throat for weeks.

“I have no intention of killing her. Not physically, at least.”

My brows furrowed as he checked his watch, thumb tapping the glass like a trigger.

“What the fuck did you do?”

The moment the words left my mouth, the first beep echoed through the mansion.

Then another. Then dozens.

The music cut mid-beat, laughter faded, and the entire place started to shift. Heads tilted down. Faces lit up with the pale glow of their phones.

I felt the buzz in my pocket and pulled mine out.

A video had been sent. Every guest had it. Every screen was playing it.

The screen blurred for a second as I tapped it open. My fingers felt colder than they should.

At first, just black. Then the wind picked up, and I heard her voice.

“Look at the view, Théo. It’s so beautiful.”

Then mine.

“It is, baby.”

Her laugh followed, warm and close. The camera shook slightly, catching a glimpse of her body pressing into mine. Bare skin under moonlight. Her legs around my waist.

Then moans filled the speakers. Hers first. Then mine. The rhythm was brutal. Skin on skin, wet, loud, fast.

She was screaming my name.

Even in the dark, it was clear what was happening. The camera caught enough. The outlines. The movement. The way her fingers clawed down my back, the way her hips rolled. My hand gripping her hips. My mouth on her throat.

Then the moonlight caught her hair for a second.

Red. Wild. Unmistakable.

And her voice broke through it all, breathless and soft.

“I love you, Théo.”

The video kept playing, but the room went dead. Not a sound.

I looked up.

Everyone was staring. Around the pool, by the bar, lining the hall. Frozen with their phones still glowing in their hands. Faces lit with something between shock and curiosity.

And Travis? Gone .

Slipped out while they watched us fuck, like it was a show made for them.

He hadn’t ruined her night.

He’d lit a match and let her whole world fucking burn.