Cruel Sanctuary (Wages of Sin Book 1)

by Tara Leigh

  I bristle at Chad’s possessive tone. But it is Damon who looks ready to rip out his jugular.

  The car stops and I elbow him through the door before Damon’s clenched fists can do it. “Let’s go.”

  On the short walk from the limousine to the lobby of The Palace Hotel, we are flanked by two guards I recognize from Damon’s staff, although tonight they are dressed in tuxedos rather than their usual tight black tee and cargo pants. They break away once we enter the lobby, but only by a few feet.

  I feel Damon’s presence just minutes after Chad and I walk through the doors ourselves, as if he merely had the driver turn the corner before jogging back down the block.

  Tiny hairs at the back of my neck rise up, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to force myself from turning around.

  I want to meet the force of this electric current running between us head on, a collision of bodies and hearts and souls. A crash that feels inevitable.

  Chad has looped his arm within mine, the insides of our forearms touching, our fingers entwined. Normally I would be pleased by his attentiveness, thrilled at networking as a couple.

  A New York City power couple.

  But tonight, it’s all I can do to smile and nod and not yank my hand away.

  “Champagne?” A server in a black uniform appears at our side, offering a tray of flutes and a bored smile.

  “I’d love one, thank you.” I lift the nearest glass and take a grateful sip. Bubbles tickle my lips, the cool liquid splashing over my tongue.

  I’ll have my eyes on you the entire time. Damon’s declaration tap dances along my spine. With each passing minute, I expect the prickling awareness of Damon’s words, of Damon’s stare, to lessen.

  It doesn’t.

  His attention is a mantle I carry with me, the weight not exactly unwelcome, but heavy just the same.

  Typically, I have a mental to-do list firmly affixed in my mind at these things. People to speak with, promises to secure.

  Tonight, I’m only interested in talking to Davina. I need to explain that I’ll be taking a step back from The Network. I’d have called her this week but I don’t trust the phone Damon gave me. And my work with The Network is too sensitive to risk sharing with anyone.

  The ballroom is nearly full already, and I plaster a smile on my face as we walk through a sea of familiar faces. Former classmates, former colleagues, friends of my father. Men in black-tie, women in evening gowns. Fake laughs, forced grins, a full glass clutched in every other hand.

  I’m beginning to worry that Davina will be a no show when I hear a voice to my right. “Ah, Aislinn. I was wondering if I would see you here tonight.”

  “Davina, so good to see you. And yes, I wouldn’t miss it.” I finally untangle my hand from Chad’s. “You know Chad, of course.”

  He flashes a megawatt smile. “I hear you are single-handedly making the women of New York safer, one cell phone at a time.”

  “Well, I could certainly help more with a grant from the city.”

  “I’m afraid the District Attorney’s office doesn’t control the city’s purse strings, but I noticed the newly appointed Commissioner for Community Affairs around here somewhere. Do you know him?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the privilege just yet.”

  I see an opening. “Chad, why don’t Davina and I chat for a bit and you can bring the commissioner over.” I look pointedly over his shoulder. “I think I see him over by the bar.”

  Once Chad is out of earshot, I maneuver closer to Davina and drop my voice. “I wanted to tell you in person, things are a little … up in the air right now.” Although The Network is a shadowy outfit, by design, I now have a shadow of my own. “I need to take a break—but just for a little while.”

  Davina’s elegant brows don’t move. “Not a problem, dear.”

  I can’t tell if she’s unsurprised, or if she’s had a recent Botox injection. Still, I hurry to reassure her. “It’s just a temporary situation. I wouldn’t take a step back if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

  “I understand completely. I’ll remove your number from circulation immediately, but if you do get a call, please let me know immediately so I can have someone else handle it.”

  “Of course.”

  She squeezes my hand. “Even a moment’s delay can mean the difference between life and death, Aislinn.”

  “I understand.” And I do.

  I understand all too well.

  The acknowledgement serves as a reminder that my current predicament is nothing compared to the risks taken by so many women in their fight to escape their abusers.

  She studies me for another moment, her deep brown gaze probing my face for any signs of reluctance.

  But she finds none.

  Because there are none.

  29

  Aislinn

  A fter Davina and I part ways, I take a quick breath to settle my nerves and begin making my way to my father’s table.

  He is already holding court with potential donors to his still unannounced mayoral campaign. Donors I handpicked and personally invited.

  “Aislinn.” I am sidetracked just a few feet away by a hand on my elbow, and a pair of pale green eyes that regard me through curly black lashes.

  My jaw drops as I take in a man I haven’t seen since the day I graduated prep school. “Seb! Oh my God. What’s it been—ten years?”

  Sebastián is a far cry from the geeky teen I remember. The fine, almost feminine features Sebastián had as a boy are now elegant and refined. Sharp cheekbones, arched eyebrows, his sculpted lips a stroke of color above a cleft chin.

  Sebastián’s perfectly tailored tuxedo is draped over the physique of a runner rather than a brawler. He is taller than Chad although not quite as tall as Damon. His hair is still a deep, rich chestnut, though a bit longer. And the slow, shy smile I remember has been replaced with a confident, gleaming grin. “Just about,” he says, flashing bright white teeth.

  He’d been my science partner junior year. When I refused to dissect the frog, Seb picked up the scalpel with no qualms. You have nice hands, you should keep them clean.

  Just then, my father notices my presence. “Ah, my lovely daughter.” He stands up, throwing his arms around me and extending his hand. He is “on” tonight. The public persona that plays so well with everyone from grandmothers on social security to young millennials just entering the workforce. “James Granville, good to meet you.”

  “Oh, sorry. Dad, this is an old friend from school. Sebastián, this is my father.”

  “Sebastián Cruz.” There is a momentary pause as his name hits my eardrums. Cruz.

  Of course, I know Sebastián’s surname. I just hadn’t made the connection.

  Ten years ago, I’d never heard of Los Muertos or Hugo Cruz, and everything I knew about Mexican cartels came from Hollywood movies.

  I want it to be some kind of crazy coincidence, but Sebastián’s next words remove all doubt. “My father sends his regards, by the way.”

  My stomach drops, the room suddenly feeling too hot.

  My father yanks his hand from Sebastián’s grip.

  “It was great seeing you, Aislinn,” Seb says, lightly kissing my cheek. “We should get together soon, catch up. I’ll be in touch.” With a last graze of my bare shoulder, he resumes his place at the table just behind ours.

  My father wastes no time, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the seat beside his. “Since when the fuck are you friends with Hugo Cruz’s son?”

  I’m struggling to find an answer to that question myself. He grew up just a few blocks away, in a gorgeous apartment on Fifty-Seventh Street, now better known as billionaire’s row. I went there to study once or twice. I don’t remember ever talking about our families in anything other than the most inconsequential way.

  Seb was a casual friend. Not much more than an acquaintance until we kissed at the end of junior year. We didn’t see each other all summer, and then we didn’t have any classes t
ogether senior year. Our flirtation died a somewhat awkward death.

  I’m saved from answering by Chad, who drops into the empty seat on my other side and leans across me to whisper something to my father. Normally I would make an effort to take part in their conversation, but right now …

  I feel like I’ve been flying a kite during a thunderstorm. I could probably power a chandelier or two with all the electricity coursing through my body.

  Scooting my chair back several inches, I drain the remainder of my glass and snag a fresh one from a passing server.

  When Chad’s hand drops to my thigh, sliding along the silky fabric of my dress to grip my knee, I nearly jump out of my seat. His conversation with my father is over and his warm breath hits my ear. “Once everything is straightened out, we should get a date on the calendar. Your father and I agree that a wedding will bring the kind of publicity you can’t buy. Late summer, early fall would be ideal.”

  Wedding! Wedding? Did I hear that correctly? I swivel to look at Chad, pushing his hand away. Our faces are close, too close. I can see the slight redness between his brows and realize he must have had them waxed. For some reason this strikes me as funny.

  It is only as I see Chad’s lips curve upward in a smile that I understand it’s because I am, too. It’s just the dose of reality I need to slap it right off my face.

  “Maybe you and my father should pick a date then,” I reply, reaching for my glass again.

  And this time, my hand is shaking for an entirely different reason. I’m angry. At myself, more than Chad or my father.

  Was that an actual proposal, or does Chad think I’m so desperate for my father’s approval that I’d allow my wedding to be just another campaign stop?

  If I hadn’t heard that audio, if I hadn’t met Damon, would I be happy right now?

  I need to talk to Chad. Soon. Knowing him, he’s probably waiting for a high-profile event to actually get down on one knee and—

  Oh Jesus, no.

  I slide my hands along Chad’s tailored jacket, feeling for a square box.

  He jerks back. “Aislinn. What are you doing?”

  “Are you going to propose here, tonight?” My voice is quiet, and I know it must look like Chad and I are having an intimate conversation. The kind a couple who was very much together would have. I still feel Damon’s stare burning into me, and I’m sure I have Sebastián’s attention, too.

  Meanwhile, Chad is looking like a kid on Christmas morning. He glances away from me to take in the assembled crowd. “You need to trust me, okay? I’m thinking, at the end of your Dad’s speech—”

  “No.” The word is a sharp rebuke.

  And for a moment, I am back in Damon’s bedroom. Are you asking me to trust you?

  No. And if a man has to ask—run.

  I’m not quite sure that I trust Damon. But right now, I definitely don’t trust Chad.

  I’m prevented from saying anything else, because the lights dim and a voice comes through the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you. Thank you for coming tonight to honor the finest district attorney our city has ever known.”

  I turn my attention to the podium at the front of the room, trying to ignore the arm Chad has thrown over the back of my chair, his fingertips lightly grazing the skin between my shoulder blades. His touch is irritating, like a scratchy tag sewn into the neckline of a cheap shirt. I want to swat it away.

  Instead, I finish my champagne, grateful for the beginnings of a buzz swirling inside my bloodstream. “… And that is why I’m thrilled to announce this year’s Criminal Justice Association Person of the Year, James Granville.” I rise to my feet, along with everyone else in the ballroom. On his way to the podium, my father shakes Chad’s hand and kisses my cheek.

  “Congratulations, Dad.” I feel sick saying it although the applause is so loud. I don’t even know if he hears me.

  As I turn back around, my hip bumps the table and my purse falls to the ground. It’s only when I pick it up that I feel my phone buzzing from within.

  I don’t hesitate. I swipe my thumb over the screen and put it to my ear, skirting Sebastián’s table and walking quickly out of the ballroom. “Hello.” I can’t tell whether anyone is on the line. “If you’re there, just give me a second.”

  It feels like a mile to get to the exit. The applause goes on and on, even after my father’s voice comes through the speakers.

  Finally, I make it to the lobby, darting into the ladies’ lounge just outside the ballroom. “I’m so sorry, are you still there? Hello?”

  But the only thing I hear is the sound of my iPhone cracking against the marble floor.

  Because I am shoved forcefully from behind. My cheek smacks the wallpaper as a solid body presses against me.

  The air is knocked from my lungs, a thick hand squeezing my throat as humid breath hits my neck. Darkness hovers at the edge of my vision, terror sounding a silent alarm throughout my nervous system. Air. I need air.

  And suddenly, I have it. The hand at my throat is gone, and I suck in a breath laced with the scent of burned wood and whiskey. Damon. Thank God.

  Terror becomes relief. But before I can spin around, I hear an unmistakable crack.

  The sound of a bone breaking.

  I lay eyes on Damon just as he is dragging a limp body beneath the vanity table. I hover against the wall as he takes his phone out of his pocket and snaps a picture of the man’s face, then shoves several stools in front of him.

  “Did he hurt you?” Damon asks. His clenched jaw is a solid slab of granite, the tone of his voice like gravel, rough and broken.

  I shake my head slowly, not ready to attempt speech, my fingers fluttering over my neck. I don’t want to look in the mirror to see if it’s red. The last thing I need is another visual from this insane evening.

  Damon keeps moving, grabbing a fistful of paper towels and running them over the wall I’d been pressed up against a moment ago. “Did you touch anything else?”

  The look I direct at him must be blank because my mind certainly is.

  “Aislinn. I need you to focus. Did you touch anything else?”

  I blink several times, trying to process his question. Then I shake my head again, mouthing the word, no, although I don’t actually say it.

  Damon retrieves my cracked phone from the floor, using the wad of paper towels in his hand. “We are going to leave here as if nothing happened, do you understand? We’re going straight through the lobby, out the front door, and directly into my car.” He folds my hand within his, our fingers entwining together. “I’ve got you, Aislinn.”

  And that one sentence steadies me, anchoring me within this raging storm. I’m shaking, barely holding my head above the treacherous waters that have become my life.

  But I’m still afloat.

  Despite the fact I was just attacked. Despite the fact Damon has killed a man in front of me and is now covering it up like it’s just another day at the office. Maybe for him, it is.

  I’ve got you, Aislinn.

  Yes. He most certainly does.

  30

  Damon

  I ’m seething.

  So angry that a lethal calm spreads like wildfire through my veins. It kills every extraneous thought, every unnecessary word and movement. The kind of calm that only allows for the most imperative of actions.

  Right now, all that matters is ensuring Aislinn’s safety. Everything else—striking back at Hugo Cruz for not staying away from Aislinn, threatening Sebastián Cruz with bodily harm if he doesn’t do the same, punishing her for running off without me, ripping Chad’s balls off and shoving them down his throat—will have to wait.

  I tuck Aislinn’s hand within mine, then open the door using paper towels, bunching the wad within my fist and concealing it inside my sleeve as we walk across the lobby.

  Aislinn’s father is still crowing about his achievements in the ballroom, his speech punctuated by frequent bursts of laughter from a rapt audience. Tonight, I am grate
ful for his charm. It is why no one walked in on us in the ladies’ lounge. It is why Aislinn and I are walking uninterrupted through an empty lobby. It is why we are able to slide into the backseat of my waiting car without a single person screaming about the dead body we left behind.

  I have Finley on the line before I close the door. “Hack into the security feed. We had an incident in the lounge just outside the main entrance to the ballroom. Get it cleaned up right away.”

  I’m speaking in shorthand, but Finley will know what needs to be done. Whatever camera feed recorded our recent movements will have technical difficulties, and if their system backs up data to hard copies, one of my crew will retrieve it.

  “And have a team shadow Sebastián Cruz. I want to know who he talks to, where he goes, whether he takes a piss in the urinal or goes in a goddamn stall.”

  I hang up to find Aislinn’s eyes on me. They are still swirling with fear and shock. The same emotions that were there just after I dumped the lifeless body of her attacker beneath the vanity counter.

  I wish I could have taken my time, savoring every one of his screams as I slammed my fist into his face. Breaking bone after bone after bone.

  Deliberately avoiding any that would have resulted in immediate death.

  I would have liked to hear him beg for his life, for mercy. And eventually, when the pain became too much to bear, for death.

  Unfortunately, circumstances demanded a far kinder death than he deserved.

  Which leaves me with way too much rage surging through my blood.

  But not enough to miss the series of tremors that shake Aislinn’s small frame. Shivers that give me pause for concern at the same time as they send a pulse of lust straight to my cock.

  “That man—he was Los Muertos?” Aislinn asks, her voice a hollowed-out rasp.

  I nod, having seen the distinctive skull tattoo covering a large swath of his neck. Proof of his loyalty to Los Muertos. “Yes.”

  “Did you see the man I was speaking with?”

  I gnash my teeth. “Sebastián Cruz? Yeah.”

  “I haven’t seen or thought about him in years. But I can’t believe he would have anything to do with drugs. Seb didn’t even smoke.”