Page 1 of Ruthless Sinner
Chapter 1
Adalina
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It isn’t every day that a girl turns twenty-one.
“Shots,” my best friend’s voice rings out. He raises his hands, passing out tiny plastic cups to everyone. One after the other, he doles out 1.5 ounces of liquid fire.
The overpowering scent of vodka assaults my senses the moment I wrap my trembling fingers around the cold, sleek shot glass. My stomach does a nervous somersault, and I remind myself to breathe. It’s just alcohol; it could be worse.
“To my favorite piccolo tesoro. The world better watch out.”
“Favorite?” I ask, my tone laced with scandalized reproach. “You mean there’s more than one?” The question hangs teasingly in the air.
Ruggero Castelli releases a deep, rich chuckle meant for my ears only. He grabs me around the waist and pulls me close, giving me a roguish smile that only he can pull off. “There could only ever be you, tesoro.”
I throw back the shot, feeling the liquid sear my throat on the way to my stomach, but I welcome it. This is the only kind of burn that leaves me feeling alive. Candle wax and cigars may leave physical scars, but alcohol scorches through my veins, branding me from within. It’s the only pain I crave because it dulls all the others.
Ruggero releases me and tosses his plastic cup at the bartender. “Another round!” He shouts.
My brain pulses with distilled grain and defiance. I twist my eyes to the watch on my wrist, noting the time—12:39 am. I’ve been gone long enough that my father will know. He’ll be up waiting for me to get back, probably with a guard or two by his side. He’ll rage and scream at me for a while before having his security whisk me away. How much alcohol do I need to drink to not feel them beat me this time? How many shots do I have to take to drown out the sound of my muffled cries and the pain from their merciless blows?
“Let’s go shake our ass!” Annaliese twists her arm through mine and pulls me to the dance floor. Manhattan, Kansas isn’t known for its club scene, but they have a few bars worth going to. Tonight, we’re throwing it back at Tate’s.
The dance floor is alive with energy and movement, a chaotic symphony of bodies and spilled drinks. Annaliese and I sway to the music while clutching our beverages, careful not to spill a drop. A beam of colorful lights passes over the crowd, bathing men and women in glowing neon lights. Smiles light up in shades of purple, orange, and red, while joy radiates in blues, yellows, and greens. Each person is awash in a mesmerizing glow, caught up in the magic of the moment.
I scan the room for a familiar face, but I only find Ruggero staring back at me from the bar. He wears his patent crooked smile and a twinkle in his eyes. In another lifetime, I’d let him take me on a date. He would twirl me around the dance floor and whisper filthy nothings in my ear during the quiet moments of a song.
But in this lifetime, he watches from afar. He eyes me up and down like a hungry wolf, but inside, he is too afraid to attack his prey. Our fathers have been friends since before we were born. We’ve been in each other’s lives since we learned how to walk. That’s why I know Ruggero could never be the one to save me. He’s seen Tommaso Martinelli yell and hit me, and he’s idly stood by. He isn’t my knight in shining armor. He is just another coward who turns a blind eye when I’m suffering at the hands of a monster.
Before I can wax too poetic about the direction my life is going, I’m baptized in liquor. The scene unfolds in slow motion before me, yet everything happens so quickly. Someone bumps into someone else, who dramatically runs into their neighbor, and so on, until the tide of bodies collides with mine, and someone’s dark amber drink spills down the front of my dress.
My body jolts backward as if I’ve been scalded by boiling water instead of splashed with alcohol. Someone shouts an apology, but I’m already walking off the dance floor. The strobe lights flicker and distort my vision as I push through the crowd, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks from embarrassment and anger.
The line for the bathroom is five people deep, but I push past the crowd to the sinks. A roll of hand towels sits outside the dispenser, half of it wet. I mumble curse words under my breath as I unwrap the damp towels and use them to sop myself up.
“Someone should have been cut off,” some girl rudely mumbles. She stands in line for a bathroom stall with her arms crossed over her chest and resting bitch face. Her sharp features and narrowed eyes exude impatience and annoyance.
I tightly crumple the damp towels in my fists, my frustration boiling over. With a sharp flick of my wrist, I send them flying towards her. The wet fabric slaps against her chest with a satisfying thwack, highlighting the stern lines of her expression as she recoils. “Use those to wipe off your clown makeup, bitch.”
I’m still sticky and damp as I storm out of the bathroom. I hate this place, my life, and everything in it.
Before I can rattle off another list of things I hate, I run into something solid and unyielding. My eyes travel up to take in the sight before me: a man with more muscles than brains. He gives me Himbo vibes as he turns to flash me a panty-melting smile. “Hey, gorgeous.”
I hate him, too, but God, he’s beautiful.
Chapter 2
Dante
Never let anyone off the hook without facing the consequences of their actions. Liars, cheaters, murderers—no one is exempt from accountability. But that doesn’t mean they can’t earn a chance at redemption. Each and every person deserves the opportunity to prove their worthiness, even if it means crawling through a pit of fire and brimstone first.
Tommaso Martinelli got his chance and spit in my face. Literally, if you count the fact that he has a hint of a stutter, and every time he says a word starting with P, you can see droplets of spittle flying out of his mouth.
I could have forgiven him if that were all that had happened. But once he had his guards physically remove me from his premises, I realized that someone needed to teach him a lesson in respect. Tommaso might be a couple of decades older than me, but that is not an excuse for disrespect.
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but you can strip away his prized possessions and leave him whimpering at your feet.