Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)(104)

“Now, get back to your precious tan,” I patted her cheek, getting up from my seat. “Who knows? It just might be your last.”




Ever since I was a kid, I’d had dreams, vivid dreams, about burning down my father’s mansion. I just knew it had to be done. I knew it would soothe the pain, make it go away. Not all of it, but enough for me to live. After I grew up, I even believed that it was the root of my sleeping problems. I just wanted the place to cease to exist, along with my memories of Daryl hitting me, Jo and Dad’s conversation, and everything else.

But the Spencer mansion sprawled over 12,000 square feet. It was huge and made of bricks, not exactly the easiest thing to set on fire.

Still—you never know until you tried, right?

The servant’s apartment was only about a hundred feet from the main house, not too far away, and while Jo came in and out of the main kitchen several times a day, she’d never even knocked on the LeBlancs’ door once. So, after I said goodbye to a shocked Jo, I went back there.

I walked into Emilia’s room, nonchalant as ever. I hummed Kravinsky’s “Nightcall” because it finally dawned on me, albeit out of nowhere, that Emilia liked the song because it was about me. I collected everything I thought she’d miss. Framed pictures. Mementos from high school. Her favorite boots. Tucking everything that wasn’t already packed by her parents and shoving it into a box.

I spent the next three hours carrying all of the LeBlancs boxes to an SUV in the garage and making three trips to the storage warehouse outside of town.

Emilia’s box, though, I kept for myself.

All that time, I saw Jo through the vast French doors of the mansion’s kitchen. Pacing, tossing back glass after glass of wine, and losing her shit. Then, when I was finally done, I turned on the gas burners of the stove in the pool house—all four of them—and left.

I wouldn’t do the burning down myself. I needed an alibi. But it was going to happen. Finally.

If Jo decided to stay in the house and burn down with it, that was her problem, not mine.

I’d warned her.

Now I had one more mission before I went back to New York—win the LeBlanc couple over.





“HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEWS?” Rosie flopped on our small sofa beside me. The couch came with the place. It was small, but it was fun to sit on an actual seat when watching TV. Rosie clicked on buttons until she reached a news channel. A mansion we knew all too well was on fire, the roof collapsing into the dancing flames. I stared at it for a long time, knowing exactly what it meant.

Vicious.

When we were seniors, he’d set fire to La Belle, the yacht that was also a restaurant that belonged to another football player who’d become an enemy of the four HotHoles. Vicious liked fire. Maybe because he was so cold, he liked the warmth twirling in his palm. It had his signature all over it.

I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and jumped to my feet, dialing his number. I wanted to make sure my parents were okay. That he was okay. He answered on the fourth ring.

I stopped whatever it was I was going to say, because I heard he was somewhere noisy. A party? A restaurant? I heard women giggling and men shouting. My heart sank to my stomach.

“Hey,” I croaked. “Is everyone all right? I saw there was a huge fire in your old neighborhood.” I kept it vague because I knew there was no way he was going to tell me the whole story over the phone. Or maybe even ever. Tucking a lock of my lavender hair behind my ear, I clasped one hand behind my neck and paced the apartment.

“Your parents are at The Vineyard.” He was curt, as always, even when he was chasing me every day. I made a memo to thank him for the taxi that had waited for me today, when he wasn’t able to walk me home. “I’m taking them to LA tomorrow. I need someone to be in charge of the catering at the Los Angeles branch, and your mom’s perfect for the job.”

I closed my eyes, breathing hard. The last thing I wanted was his charity, but my parents weren’t proud people. They just wanted to work and earn their way. I pinched my nose with my fingers, hating that I needed his help and was going to accept it, even after everything we’d been through.

“Thanks,” I said. “Well, I’ll let you go back to your party.”

“Bye,” he said, as if nothing had happened. As if he didn’t save my butt…again.

“Wait,” I hurried out before he hung up. The line was still there, but he didn’t say anything. I rubbed a hand against my thighs. “When will you be back in New York?”

“Can you just admit you miss me? It’s not that fucking hard.” I heard the smile in his voice.