Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)(82)

She wasn’t there for him, like he wasn’t there for my mom.

I wondered if Jo had ever loved him. Really loved him. I knew nothing about relationships, but something told me the answer was no. Something told me that my mother was murdered not because of a great love but because of pure greed.

“Hello?” I pressed my phone to my ear.

Mr. Viteri, my dad’s attorney, was a man of few words. “The day after the funeral,” he said.

It didn’t seem too long a wait.

“Who else are you sending a copy to?” I asked. Not that it mattered. Wills were public records.

“You, Josephine, and your dad’s brother, Alistair.”

Alistair was irrelevant. He was sixty and lived an ordinary life on a ranch in a small town in Texas. If anything, I was planning to split the funds with him, though I knew he didn’t care about money. Lucky bastard. But now I knew for certain Jo was in the will.

“Can you send my copy to Eli Cole? His house, not his office?” I asked.

I heard his Sharpie as he scribbled down the address. “I’m sorry for your loss, Baron,” he finally said, because that was what was expected to say.

“Thank you, that means a lot,” I said, for the exact same reason.

I finished packing, took my stuff and my sorry ass to The Vineyard, the nearest five-star hotel, ordered room service, and got drunk on whatever was in the mini bar.

I was eager to see Jo’s face when I confronted her about knowing everything she and Daryl did. When I forced her to give up every single penny my father left her.

I was eager to have Emilia by my side again. Catering to me. Assisting me. Fucking with me.

Rubbing my hands together at the very idea of what was to come, it dawned on me that the idea of flying my PA to Todos Santos was just a little more exciting than seeing Jo’s face crumbling with agony as I laid the new laws of life in her fucking face and stripped her of the money she wrongfully claimed to be hers.

I picked up the phone and called my PA.

To say I got no response would be an understatement.

She didn’t take my calls and didn’t answer my text messages either. Not on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day or the day after. I dialed, I hit send, and each time my phone sat there silent, I wanted to smash something. Although, to be completely fair, my messages were less than welcoming.



What the fuck happened to your phone? Answer me.



He dropped dead. I need you to come here. Call me back.



I wonder how blasé you’ll be when I bend you over and fuck the rudeness out of you for not answering your boss for three days in a row.



It felt ridiculous. The sitting. The waiting. The craving.

That needed to change. I needed a distraction from this woman.

And I knew just how to change it.




“Just leave it outside,” I yelled to room service from inside my suite.

It couldn’t be anyone else, because the only person I’d invited to my hotel—Georgia, my high school casual fuck—was already inside the room. She was also pissing me the fuck off with her annoying, whiny voice. The years hadn’t been good to her. Sure, she worked out and was always wrapped in the latest designer number, but everything about her was self-involved, plastic, and overdone.

I needed to throw her out before she made a move on me. Ridiculous, considering I’d asked her here so I could fuck her and the aching memory of Emilia from my system.

So, I’d called one of my old flings to distract myself until I had the will in my hands? So what.

Georgia was sitting on the sofa across from my chair, still babbling about something that happened at Todos Santos’s country club five years ago. I wasn’t listening—I lit up a blunt.

“…and I was shocked, Vic, so shocked. I mean, it was one thing that she didn’t want to donate to my charity, but to shamelessly accuse me of founding a whole organization just so Dad would look better during his senate campaign—”

“Why did you break into Emilia LeBlanc’s locker that day?” I cut her off suddenly, smoke fanning out of my flared nostrils.

I was physically unable to hear any more of the boring shit she was feeding me. Downstairs, in the hotel bar, where we’d had a drink, I’d convinced myself that I didn’t mind her annoying voice and annoying facial expressions and annoying self. Alas, I was wrong. I minded all of these things. A lot.

“Emilia LeBlanc?” Georgia twirled a strand of her hair with her finger, blinking at me. Her mascara was too thick and obvious. It didn’t really help my disinterested cock.

“Yeah. Don’t pretend like you don’t remember her.” I blew smoke to the ceiling and twisted my wrist to check my Rolex.

“I do remember her. I’m just surprised you do.” She arched an eyebrow.