THE ART OF SINS
They dragged me into the back office of the restaurant, locked the door, and threw me onto the leather couch.
Nico walked in slowly, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt. He was tall, broad, with dark hair, cold gray eyes, and a scar across his left cheek. Power rolled off him like smoke. He was the underboss — second only to the Don — and everyone feared him.
He held up my phone, the photo still on the screen.
“Stupid little girl,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You thought you could spy on me and get away with it?”
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