Page 33 of Sins and Virtue

Treading lightly, I asked. “What is it?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh come on,” My hands went up in the air. “Way to be hypocritical.”

“It’s better for your sake that you don’t know.”

“Stop trying to protect me, Konstantin. I am literally in the safest place in the world. No damn criminal would even think of coming to a secluded little town off the Mediterranean Coast in Italy! If you want this partnership to work, you have to trust me.”

A tick sowed through his jaw, like he hated the position I put him in.

“Aleskandra Reina De La Rossa.” Her name ripped from his lips like a heavy curse.

“Who is she?”

“You don't want to know, kotyonok.”

“Really? I’m already two feet in this shit—” I caught myself, holding my tongue as I resorted to using another word. “I’m already your accomplice. If this thing goes south, there is no saving grace, so spill.”

His eyes glanced back into mine, holding for a moment, letting it linger for a reflective second. Something akin to my ribs beating faster as a sigh fled his lips. “Queen of the underworld.”

“The underworld?” I mouthed, my brows furrowed. “What is that, some kinky BDSM club or secret society?”

“And how do you know what BDSM is?”

Flashing heat burned in my cheeks, reminiscing of the times where I was in a red velvet room filled with toys as I stripped naked as my dom put my collar on me and asked me to come and be a “good girl” as I knelt before him, kissing around the frame of his erection and began sucking on his—

I blinked rapidly, snapping myself out of that lustful deprivation. “It was something I heard about before. I don’t know.”

“Right.”

“Seriously, what is it?”

He deadpanned, not entertaining my absurdity. “It’s not anit. It’s organized crime. The mafia. Dirty politicians. Tycoon titan billionaires controlling things behind the scene. Secret societieshidden from the world. Behind that thin veil, she— Aleksandra Reina De La Rossa— is the queen of the underworld. More specifically, she is the underworld.”

A cord wrapped around my throat, uneasiness spilling into my stomach.

The severity of the case increased; only then did I realize the true danger. “Wait. Why would she be writing to you unless…” My words trailed off, not daring to jump to conclusions and assumptions. After all, assumptions got you killed. So I asked another critical question. “Who exactly are you, Konstantin?”

He tilted his head, his movement almost animalistic, predatory in a sense, like if I would make a wrong move, he would snap my neck. “I told you before, kotyonok, we’re not common criminals. We’re far worse.”

My heart beat faster, ringing in my ears.

The sense of pending doom lingered close by.

“Who are you?” I repeated, not able to feel peace again until he answered.

One cold empty smile lined his lips. “I have no name, Ya Bratva. We Bratva.” The coldness in his words made shivers break out against my skin. “Konstantin Volkov, at your service, tormentor and former consigliere of the Bratva.”

The damned oath reminded me of a past formed not too long ago.

One I wished I could redo so it never existed.

My mind faded to a busy city night in Medellín, Colombia, almost three years ago.

Mindlessly slipping on my cholado— a cocktail mixed with fruit punch, condensed milk, ice, and more fruit— a popular drink in the city of Medellin in a new hotspot in downtown. The locals had recommended it after I had challenged some other locals and slammed down three shots of their famous Aguaridente, and the drink had little effect on me, so to takeprecaution, I decided to switch to a soft drink so I wouldn’t get shitfaced.

It had been a few months since I started backpacking the world. My older brother, Sean, had insisted on taking a break to scour the world, see the different cultures, enjoy the people, and then when I was done and ready to come and be an actual adult to contribute to our family’s multibillion-dollar enterprise.