Stolen by a Sinner (Sinners #3)(3)

Shit. I hope the traffic won’t be too bad.

Hurrying out of the restaurant, I turn left and slam into a wall of muscle. Startled, a shriek escapes me, then I go down hard and fast. Unable to stop the motion, I fall onto my right side and the bag skids across the sidewalk.

In absolute horror, I watch as the containers open, and seafood scatters over the ground and a pair of brown leather shoes.

God. No.

Pins and needles erupt over my skin, and wincing from the ache in my hip, I move into a kneeling position, adjusting my skirt to cover my legs.

The food is ruined.

Tymon’s going to kill me.

“Just what I fucking needed.” The growl is dark, harboring a world of danger.

There’s a whooshing in my ears, and as if in slow motion, I look up at the man standing among the scattered prawns and oysters.

Wearing a pristine, dark blue three-piece suit, testosterone and wealth exude from him, along with an ungodly dangerous vibe that makes the atmosphere around him seem darker than night.

He has styled black hair, and his light brown eyes are almost gold, reminding me of a lion. A strong jaw covered by a neat dusting of scruff rounds off his breathtaking features.

God, he’s attractive.

I swallow hard as I keep staring at his ruggedly handsome face.

“Do you plan on sitting at my feet all night?” His voice is deep and velvety, sending a rush of goosebumps scattering over my skin.

When I notice he’s looking at me as if I’m nothing more than a piece of dirt he stepped on, anger trickles into my chest.

Because of him, I’ll be punished, and I’ll have to pay for prawns and oysters with the money I don’t have.

Blood. I’ll pay with my blood.

Climbing to my feet, I scowl at him then glance at the ruined food. I’ll have no choice but to use the credit card again.

God.

The impact of what just happened shudders through my body like a tsunami of horror.

Impatiently, the man snaps at me, “Jesus, get out of my way, woman.”

Something cracks deep inside me, and totally out of character, I jab a finger at the rude man, letting him have a piece of my mind. “If you hadn’t plowed into me, I wouldn’t have dropped the bag. Now I’m late, and I have to order the meal again, and I don’t have money and you being rude is not–”

“Does it look like I fucking care?” His annoyed expression clearly shows he doesn’t give two shits about my problem, and my little tantrum is only irritating him more.

It’s only then I notice the other two men. One is watching me as if I’m a bomb that can detonate at any moment, and the other actually looks like he pities me.

Taking in all three of the men, apprehension slithers down my spine.

They’re cut from the same cloth as Tymon. I can feel the danger vibrating in the air around them.

Crap.

I take a step backward and anxiously glance into the restaurant.

The one looking at me with pity mutters, “Come, Gabriel. We have a lot to do.”

The attractive one, who I assume is Gabriel, reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a wad of cash, shoves it against my chest, and pushes past me, his shoulder bumping me out of his way.

Grabbing hold of the much-needed money, my eyebrow pops up, then I’m left to stare at his back as he stalks to one of the reserved tables with the other men.

Jerk.

Shaking my head, I enter the restaurant and make a beeline for the server who just helped me.

After placing another order, I have to wait outside the restaurant because all the tables are reserved. I wrap my arms around my waist and stare at the sidewalk, now clear of the ruined meal.

At least I didn’t have to pay for food.

But I’m still late.

I glance at the time and close my eyes when I see it’s already six o’clock.

I’m dead.





Chapter 2


Gabriel



After dinner, I sip on a tumbler of raki. That’s why I like coming to Aqua. They’re one of the few places that serve the traditional Turkish drink.

After taking the last sip of his drink, Emre, my cousin and second in command, murmurs, “The men are ready.”

Emre’s five years younger than me and has always been like a little brother. His parents died in a car accident just after his birth, so my parents took him in.

I nod, my thoughts turning to my parents. They came over from Turkey to make a better life for themselves and us in Seattle. After they were murdered, I only had my grandmother and Emre. The rest of my family on my mother’s side remained in Turkey. Although they visit at least once a year, I’m not as close with them as I am with my Grandmother and Emre.

Tymon Mazur had my parents killed when they wouldn’t sell their store to him. They owned a simple bakery, trying to make a modest living like everyone else.

It happened thirty years ago.

Time has done nothing to make the memory fade. It was an unseasonably hot summer’s day. My t-shirt clung to my sweaty back as I packed flour bags onto shelves in the storeroom when Mazur’s men came in. The threatening voices had me abandoning my work, and when I peeked around the partially open door, my father noticed and gestured for me to stay back.

Before I could obey, the first gunshot rang through the air. The bullet hit Dad in his stomach. Mom screamed. Someone cursed. Then more shots were fired.