“Twisted, sexy and dark—Dark Mafia Prince is everything I love in a stay-up-all-night-can’t-put-it-down read!”
~author M. O’Keefe
Books by Skye Warren
Trust Fund Duet
Survival of the Richest
The Evolution of Man
North Security Trilogy
Overture
Concerto
Sonata
Endgame Trilogy & Masterpiece Duet
The Pawn
The Knight
The Castle
The King
The Queen
Underground Series
Rough Hard Fierce
Wild Dirty Secret
Sweet
Deep
Stripped Series
Tough Love
Love the Way You Lie
Better When It Hurts
Even Better
Pretty When You Cry
Caught for Christmas
Hold You Against Me
To the Ends of the Earth
Criminals and Captives standalones
Prisoner
Hostage
Standalone Dark Romance
Wanderlust
On the Way Home
His for Christmas
Hear Me
Take the Heat
CLICK HERE for the complete Skye Warren book list, along with boxed sets, audiobooks, and print listings.
Books by Annika Martin
Enemies to lovers Romantic Comedy
Most Eligible Billionaire
The Billionaire’s Wake-up Call Girl
Breaking the Billionaire’s Rules
Dark Mafia
Dark Mafia Prince
Wicked Mafia Prince
Savage Mafia Prince
Romantic Suspense standalones
Against the Dark
Off the Edge
Into the Shadows
Behind the Mask
MM Spies
Enemies like You
Criminals & Captives (with Skye Warren)
Prisoner
Hostage
Ultra dirty romantic comedy series
The Hostage Bargain
The Wrong Turn
The Deeper Game
The Most Wanted
The Hard Way
Click here to see a complete list of Annika’s books.
Sinner
Sinner
By: Sierra Simone
To Renee Bisceglia:
This isn’t the first book I’ve dedicated to you, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
Prologue
With the right pen, a man can rule the world.
You wine them, dine them, flash them smiles, slip them gifts, massage them with compliments and praise and give them the old hey-buddy-buddy. You play golf or see the ballet or compare four-thousand-dollar suits and ten-thousand-dollar watches, and then you casually apply the leverage, the bladed facts against the soft underbellies, and handshake by handshake, you build yourself something new and shimmering and golden.
And when they’re at the precipice, the point of no return, when they are looking behind them and see their last chance to back out—that’s when you hand them the pen.
And they take it into their hands and it’s solid and weighty and cool to the touch, and they uncap it to see the engraved gold nib ready to drip with the promise of money and power. And when they press the pen to the paper and the ink flows so crisp and dark, like some kind of inky, terrible blood, that’s when it’s done.
That’s when you rule the world.
I’m not a good man, and I’ve never pretended to be. I don’t believe in goodness or God or any happy ending that isn’t paid for in advance.
What do I believe in? Money. Sex. Macallan 18.
They have words for men like me—playboy. Womanizer. Skirt chaser.
My brother used to be a priest, and he only has one word for me.
Sinner.
Chapter 1
Armani tuxedo, Berluti shoes, Burberry watch.
Blue eyes, blond hair, a mouth a little too wickedly wide.
Yeah, I know I look good as I step out of my Audi R8 and walk into the hospital benefit.
I know it, the valet taking my keys knows it, the girl working the complimentary bar knows it. I give her the classic Bell dimple as I take a scotch from her, and she blushes. And then I turn and face the crowd of milling wealth, sipping my Macallan and thinking about where to start first.
Because tonight is my fucking victory lap.
First of all, I inked the Keegan deal this afternoon—which is this sexy stack of papers transferring a deserted downtown block of nothing to a New York developer—and my God, you would not believe the money these people have. It’s not normal money. It’s like oil money. It’s not only making my firm a shit-ton, but it’s going to anchor my position at Valdman and Associates, just in time for Valdman to retire and need someone to sit in that coveted corner office and count all the gold coins.
Second of all, I inked the deal, not Charles Northcutt—fuck that guy—and I would like to rub it in his stupid face tonight. I know he’ll be here because he can’t resist free drinks and bored trophy wives.
And third of all, I’ve been clocking a lot of late nights on the Keegan thing, which has severely cut into my sex life, and I’m hard up for it. I’ve got a few regulars saved to my phone and there’s always the exclusive club I’m a member of, but tonight’s my victory lap. That deserves something special. Something new.
I take another look around the room—Valdman’s in the corner with his wife, laughing and red-faced even though the benefit’s only just started, and Northcutt is right at his elbow, of course.
Fucking suck-up.
But tonight is mine, and there are gorgeous women everywhere, and maybe I’m just another white guy with too much money in a sea of white guys with too much money, but I’ve got the advantage. I’m a sinner with a dimpled smile and perfect hair, and I know how to make sin feel like heaven.
I swallow my scotch, set the glass down, and head off into the fray.
An hour later, I feel a nudge at my elbow.
“Dad’s here. Just so you know.”
I turn to see a man my age offering me another drink and giving me a convenient excuse to lean away from my current conversation and examine the room.
Sure enough, Elijah Iverson’s father is across the room, surrounded by the usual cluster of hospital mega-donors and society leeches. Dr. Iverson is the physician-in-chief of the hospital’s cancer center and an ever-present figure at these kinds of events, so I shouldn’t be surprised he's here, but my skin tightens uncomfortably all the same, sending prickles of heat down the back of my neck. I close my eyes, and for a minute, I hear the clatter of casserole dishes and my father’s raised voice. Elijah’s mother murmuring pleadingly. And I can still smell all of those flowers, white and cloying and needy, funeral flowers for a funeral that shouldn’t have been needed.