sinners

The city never slept for people like Cain Russo.

It prowled. It hunted. It devoured.

And tonight, it bared its teeth inside the walls of Club Inferno.

Grace stepped into the heat of the club, the bass rumbling up her legs like a lover’s touch. The Red Room was behind velvet ropes and locked doors, but Cain’s hand on her lower back said she already belonged to it. She wore black silk, her hair pinned high, lips bloodred. Not a wife. Not a woman in mourning.

A weapon.

A fantasy.

His.

And yet, across the room, her past waited like a loaded gun.

Ryan.

Her husband’s eyes met hers through the crowd. Anger barely masked behind the cold sheen of his whiskey glass. She hadn’t told him she was going out. Not that she owed him anything anymore.

Cain noticed the shift in her breathing, the stiffness in her spine.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he murmured.

Grace leaned back, brushing her ass against his groin. “No. Just a mistake.”

Cain chuckled, dark and low. “Then let’s make sure he knows you’re not his anymore.”

Before she could answer, his hand slid beneath her dress.

She gasped, gripping the bar. His fingers moved with purpose—slow, then sharp. She bit her lip, arching against him, never looking away from her husband.

Ryan’s glass shattered in his hand.

---

Elsewhere in the club, Sam was draped across a leather lounge, her legs tangled with two of Cain’s men. They’d been assigned to “keep an eye” on her. Poor bastards.

She fed them shots and dirty secrets, her dress barely staying on, her laugh low and inviting.

“You sure you’re not police?” one of them asked, eyes half-lidded.

Sam straddled him without warning, her hips moving in slow circles. “Do I *feel* like a cop?”

The second man groaned as she reached between their bodies. “No,” he breathed. “You feel like a sin I’d confess twice.”

---

Ava, meanwhile, descended into the Red Room.

The air was thicker there—like incense and sex and leather. Luca stood waiting, shirt unbuttoned, tattoos like prayers inked in reverse across his chest.

He didn’t speak.

Ava walked to him, unclasped her dress, and let it fall.

Naked, proud, unashamed.

“On your knees,” he said.

She knelt before him like a queen offering her crown.

And when he grabbed her hair and pulled her closer, she didn’t flinch.

She *moaned.*

---

Back in the club, Grace was breathless, heart pounding, skin slick with sweat and thrill. Cain kissed her like a man who owned her, fingers still buried inside her, and whispered, “Tonight, you beg.”

She opened her mouth—but the voice that interrupted wasn’t hers.

“You think she’s yours?”

Ryan’s.

Cain turned his head slightly, cool and calm. “She was never yours.”

Grace pulled away, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen, desire still humming through her.

Ryan’s fists were clenched. He looked like he’d rather kill them both than walk away.

“She’s a liar,” he growled. “She’s my wife.”

“No,” Cain said, pulling Grace against him again. “She’s mine until I’m done with her.”

Before Ryan could lunge, two of Cain’s guards stepped between them. He was pushed back—humiliated, furious.

But not defeated.

“I’ll burn you to the ground,” he hissed, storming out.

Cain looked unfazed.

Grace trembled, but not from fear.

It was *something else.*

Excitement.

---

That night, back at the penthouse, Cain was relentless.

He slammed Grace against the mirrored wall, tearing her dress open.

“Still thinking about him?” he snarled.

“No,” she moaned.

“Liar.”

He shoved into her, fast and deep, her cry echoing off glass and steel.

Her hands clawed at his back, her legs wrapped around his waist, and when he bit her neck, she arched like she was being reborn.

It was brutal.

It was beautiful.

And it was wrong.

So *deeply* wrong.

---

But outside, in the dark, Ryan wasn’t alone.

A man stepped from the alley—sharp suit, sharper eyes.

“You want him gone?” the stranger asked.

Ryan didn’t answer.

The man handed him a card. No name. Just a number.

“You help us bring Cain Russo down,” he said, “and we’ll let you kill him yourself.”