Chapter 4 The Don

Don Sinister's P.O.V

I want to smash my phone into the mirror, watch the glass splinter and scatter like the thoughts in my head.

But even then, she'd still be there.

Deborah.

I've never been haunted by a woman before.

But if I ever was?

This is how it would feel.

Like poison in my veins.

Like fire under my skin.

She's in my blood.

I grip the sink until my knuckles crack, fingers digging into cold marble that groans beneath the strain.

My reflection stares back-hollow-eyed, lips drawn in a grim line.

But it isn't me I see.

It's her.

That wide-eyed innocence.

That trembling mouth-soft, parted, like she's holding back a plea... or a scream.

The way she looked at me

Like I was danger incarnate.

And still-the only thing standing between her and destruction.

It did something to me.

Something I couldn't name.

Something I sure as hell didn't like.

But I wanted more of it.

I drag a hand down my face, my chest tight, lungs refusing to expand.

I don't get like this

I don't fixate.

Women come and go like shadows, their names forgotten before the sheets cool.

But her?

Her face is seared into my mind like a brand.

She's mine.

The thought beats in my skull with every throb of my pulse.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

I push off the sink, my towel hanging low on my hips as I stride into the bedroom.

My eyes dart to the bed, expecting to see her curled up there like a small, delicate creature caught in a predator's den.

But there's nothing.

The sheets are too neat.

The air too still.

I stop cold.

No.

I move deeper into the room, my voice low and hoarse as her name slips out

"Deborah."

Silence.

I check the closet.

Empty.

Drop to my knees and scan under the bed.

Nothing.

My stomach twists.

No.

No.

No.

She wouldn't.

She couldn't.

But she had.

She's gone.

Gone.

The roaring in my ears grows louder, drowning out the rational part of me trying to make sense of it.

I grab my phone and stab the button for reception.

"A girl left my room," I say, voice deadly calm. "Dark hair. Brown skin. Innocent eyes. She's dressed like a fucking stripper."

A nervous voice crackles back. "Uh... sir... we didn't-"

"She was in my room. Where the fuck is she?"

"We didn't see anyone like that. But we could pull the cameras. Did she steal someth-"

I hang up before he finishes.

The rage hits me like a freight train.

A growl rips from my chest as I grab the nearest lamp and hurl it across the room.

The crash of shattering glass doesn't satisfy me.

Nothing would.

"FUCK!" I roar, my voice raw.

I tear the sheets from the bed, rip open the pillows.

Feathers burst into the air, swirling like snow in the storm I've become.

She ran from me.

My little one thought she could escape the Devil.

The Devil always collects.

Always

I stalk toward the minibar, grab a full bottle of whiskey, and smash it against the wall.

Amber liquid streams down like blood, its sharp scent filling my lungs.

My hands claw through my wet hair as I pace, my mind racing and splintering all at once.

Why would she run?

I gave her safety.

I gave her me.

She should know better.

She's mine.

She doesn't get to leave.

"Sin!"

The door slams shut behind Vince as he steps in, his sharp eyes sweeping the wreckage.

"What the hell happened here?"

"She's gone." My voice is low, dangerous, vibrating with barely contained violence.

"Who?" He crosses his arms, smirking.

"The girl. The stripper."

That smirk widens into a laugh.

"You? Obsessed with a stripper? This is new."

I move before I can think.

My hand fists in his shirt collar, slamming him back against the door so hard the frame rattles.

"Don't FUCKING laugh." My voice is a growl, my face inches from his.

His smirk falters.

"Okay. Alright. Jesus, Sin. Relax. Who is she?"

"She's mine. My queen. And she fucking ran from me."

Vince stares at me like he doesn't recognize the man gripping him.

"Your queen? Sin... you don't even do girlfriends. What's she done to you?"

"I don't know," I admit, jaw locking tight. "But I know this-she's not allowed to run. Not from me."

"Okay," Vince says carefully, prying my fingers off his shirt.

"We'll find her. I'll put the best men on it. But you need to breathe. You're scaring the hell out of me."

"When I find her, I'll paint her ass red. I'll teach her what it really means to belong to me."

Vince swallows hard.

"We'll find her. But first... they caught the two who tried to kill you last night."

A cold grin cuts across my face.

"Take me to them."

The warehouse reeks of piss, blood, and fear.

The two men are bound to chairs, their faces already battered.

I don't bother asking questions.

I let my fists speak for me.

Bones snap under my hands.

Screams fill the space, echoing off the concrete walls

Blood spatters my shirt, my skin, my soul

But it isn't enough.

Nothing is enough.

When their bodies are little more than sacks of broken meat, I draw my gun and empty two rounds into their skulls.

"I'm so sorry, Don. Please spare my lif- I pro-"

BANG. BANG.

The man drops to the warehouse floor like a bag of garbage. His blood pools under him-slow, sticky-spreading like oil from a bad car.

The silence afterward is deafening.

Vince stands by the door, his face pale. Then a low, satisfied grunt.

"You don't miss."

I don't reply. I tuck the gun into my coat and pace.

"Still restless?"

"Yes."

"You're losing it, Sin."

"I'll lose everything if I don't get her back."

"You've gone mad," Vince mutters, pulling out his phone.

"We need the cleanup crew in Room 304. Bring a second team for the carpet. And towels. A lot of towels."

He looks at me.

"You good?"

I nod.

"Have you found the pastor?"

"Yeah. The guys found him. He's lives here and his daughter is getting married on Saturday."

"Then we attack him there."

"At the wedding? Man, that's cold."

"Should have thought about it before he killed my fucking sister," I snap.

Vince sighs.

"You know, you could just hire a therapist."

I look at him.

"Right, bad joke," he says, scratching the back of his head.

"But... you have to admit you're acting psycho right now. You need to relax.

"I'll relax when I have her in my arms."

Vince shakes his head.

"You're a sick bastard."

"Give me the file."

He tosses it over.

I flip through the pho

Ctos, scanning faces, locations, details-until one image freezes me.

No.

No. No. No.

Not again.

"That little bitch.

"Sin?" Vince steps forward cautiously.

"She played me." My hands tremble as I grip the paper so hard it tears.

"Who?"

"Deborah," I snarl. "That's the girl. She's the stripper."

I lift my gun and empty the clip into the corpses on the floor.

She. Fucking. Played. Me.

Each shot is a roar from my chest, my rage too big for my body to contain.

"She thought she could run? From me?"

"Sin-stop!" Vince shouts, stepping toward me.

But I can't.

The beast in me is loose.

"She's mine. And when I find her..."

My voice drops to a whisper.

"She'll be sorry."

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