Page 15 of Sinful Lord

“What is this?” I weakly demand.

Elsa only rolls her eyes. “A girl’s got to eat,” she says, so casually it sends a shiver down my spine. “And in this city, there are only a few ways someone like me can make a good living. What do you say, Viktor?”

She looks towards the towering figure.

He nods, pulling the brim back over his eyes. Shadows cover his face, revealing only a pair of thin lips that whiten into a tight smile.

“She’ll do just fine.”

“Elsa, I—”

“Don’t say my name,” she snaps. “Don’t you ever say my name again. I’m dead to you.”

“What… why?” I gulp.

The man takes a step toward me. I shuffle backward, before hitting something hard.

“Because you don’t exist anymore,” Elsa says. Stomping her heel down on her discarded cigarette, she grinds it into nothing. “And you never did.”

Horror rushes through me as another figure appears from behind the front of the van.

My mouth opens to scream, but before I can manage to make a sound, two frozen hands wrap around my mouth.

“Now you’ll know why our turnover is so high,” Elsa chuckles.

It’s the last thing I hear before a suffocating black bag is shoved over my head.

3

Tytus

The air inside her apartment is hardly any warmer than the freezing hallway outside.

“You deserve better than this, princess.”

Immediately, my gaze is pulled toward the windows. There are only two of them, but they’re both big enough to be a problem. I search for cracks in the glass. Nothing.

Pulling aside the raggedy drapes, I search the linings for leaks. Again, nothing. The windows are sealed well enough. So why is it so cold in here?

Turning back into the living room, I try to find some warmth. Not for my sake, mind you, but for Melina’s.

How does she keep warm at night?

My search comes up empty. The grates in the floors aren’t breathing and the ventilation shaft near the ceiling might as well be a dead spot.

There are no two ways about it. This place is a dump. Unbefitting of a mafia princess.

And that makes it the perfect place to hide.

Perhaps I’ve underestimated this little dove.

Is she really willing to suffer like this for the sake of her art? Of her freedom?

It’s almost admirable.

Almost.

But I know better. I once lived like this. It wasn’t a choice. My childhood was filled with illness and an unescapable cold. The second I felt the warm flames of hell, I jumped into them, head-first.