Chapter 24 Sins in Scarlet
Valentina’s POV
“How do I look?” I ask, hovering in the threshold of Giuliana and Slate’s room, heart pounding beneath my sparkling top.
Giuliana glances up-and her face breaks into a lascivious grin that almost makes me blush. In the full-length mirror behind her, I catch the glint of red sequins flashing across my shoulders, black booty shorts hugging my hips with sinful intent. The thigh-high red leather boots make my legs look endless. I flick my ponytail over one shoulder, the tight, glossy length swinging like a challenge. My makeup is defiant-glittery red shadow, thick black liner, lashes thick as wings, lips as red and shameless as a warning flare.
She whistles, voice low and teasing. “Jesus, Valentina. You walk out like that and half the room will forget to breathe. You are every bad decision a man ever wanted to make.”
I laugh, nerves bubbling beneath my bravado. “You’re not exactly the picture of innocence, babe. If Slate saw you right now, he’d bolt the door and swallow the key.”
Giuliana’s outfit is almost criminal. Skintight faux leather pants, glittering mesh running down the sides, flashes of honey-gold skin peeking through with every movement. Her halter bralet is baby blue, dipping deep enough to turn heads, hinting at everything and promising nothing. Curls the color of red wine bounce as she turns, lips painted a dangerous, decadent shade, her eyes smoky and feline. She looks like a sin you’d regret-and never forget.
We collapse onto her bed in fits of giggles, the tension easing for a breathless moment. “Let’s take selfies,” I say. “We’ll drive the boys out of their minds.”
She props up our phones, angles us just right. We pose-lips parted, eyes hungry, bodies draped together like trouble itself. The timer clicks. Flash. Then again. Each shot another tease, another dare. We send them off with messages calculated to torment, our laughter almost giddy.
My phone vibrates with a message that makes my pulse quicken.
Holy fuck, baby. You look hot as hell. Where do you think you’re going like that? If I was there, you’d be in our bed, screaming my name until you couldn’t speak. Shit, Valentina, you’re torturing me. Slate’s about to break his phone. Swears he needs the bathroom-I guarantee you he’s jerking off.
I snort, showing Giuliana. She’s on the phone, cheeks flushed, biting her lip.
“Slate’s in rare form,” she murmurs, rolling her eyes, but the smile won’t leave her face. “He’s talking filth, and I love every word of it.”
There’s something raw and beautiful in seeing her like this-unguarded, flushed with happiness and hunger both. We’re partners in more ways than one. I catch her gaze, and we share a conspiratorial smile, the sort that only sisters-in-arms can know.
We gather our bags, nerves creeping back in as we double-check hidden zippers, the cold press of metal beneath our fingers. My hand lingers on the tequila bottle, the drugs stashed within. “Vodka bottle?” I prompt.
” disquice “All set
My phone pings again-Killian’s voice in text, possessive, sweet, laced with that dark edge I crave. Just girls’ night with Giuliana. Promise we’ll be safe. I love you, miss you already.
I wince at the lie by omission but hit send. Giuliana catches my eye, reading my meaning-no truths for Slate tonight. She offers a small, understanding nod.
Killian texts again:
Have fun, Angel. Stay out of trouble. If you leave, take some prospects with you.
A kiss emoji is my only answer. He won’t hear a no, but I won’t make a promise I have no intention of keeping.
We slip out, high on adrenaline and anticipation. The evening is heavy with heat, the world hushed in expectation. We slide into the SUV, our disguises both armor and invitation, and pull away from the safety of home.
The guards at the gate wave us through with lazy grins, not seeing past our lashes and easy smiles. I tap the address Linsey sent into the navigation system, my hands steady even as my heart thunders in my chest.
As the city blurs past, we talk of Papa. “He knows?” I ask, voice hushed as the headlights streak by.
“He’s watching out for us. Says he’s heard nothing about the Mafia sniffing around after Sterling.” Her words are comfort, but the uncertainty lingers between us.
We sing with the radio, voices loud to drown the tension, hands drumming on our knees as the miles peel away beneath the tires.
The Ravagers’ clubhouse looms ahead-white brick stark against the night, cold and unfamiliar, the windows pulsing with the bass of some distant party. Giuliana lowers the window, breathes deep, and slips into character as a prospect ambles over, hair long and wild, cut straining across broad
shoulders.
“Hi, big guy! Linsey and Bonnie invited us,” she purrs, every inch the carefree party girl.
He leers, eyes raking over us. “Need to check your bags.”
We comply, showing him the surface clutter-lipsticks, perfumes, wallets-our secrets hidden in stitched shadows. He barely looks before waving us on. “Send someone out with beers, would ya?”
I offer him a wicked smile. “I’ll bring them myself, sugar. Hope you like surprises.” The other guard grins, and we slip through the gates.
Inside, I exhale a laugh. “Security, my ass. If he’d checked for real, we’d be toast.’
Giuliana’s voice is tight but brave. “Let’s count our blessings. You spiking their beers too?”
“Yeah. Blaise gave me painkillers strong enough to fell a bull. I’ll slice them open on our way out.” I scan the crowd already gathering outside the door-bikers and hangers-on, laughter and threat mingling in the air.
She straightens her shoulders, steel in her eyes. “Just stick to the plan. We dose who we can, get in, get out, and if anyone gives us trouble…” She taps her bag, the glint of a knife just visible. “They’ll never
know what hit them.”
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One last check-names, faces, lies. I’m Fiona. She’s Sally. We fix smiles onto our faces, steeling ourselves for the roles we have to play. And together, we stride toward the Ravagers’ door, our bodies wrapped in sin, our hands steady, and our hearts pounding with the dangerous promise of the night
ahead.
We step inside, swallowed by noise and heat-the Ravagers’ clubhouse pulsing with life, sweat, and chaos. Girls drape themselves over bikers, half-naked and hungry, bodies twisting on the edge of the dance floor, mouths pressed together in feverish kisses or open-mouthed laughter. Bikers lounge in shadows or thrones of leather, drinks in hand, eyes scanning for the next thrill. When Giuliana and I enter, conversation snags and stalls; dozens of eyes sweep our way, sizing up new arrivals-fresh faces, easy targets, new possibilities.
Linsey’s shriek cuts through the music, sharp and delighted. She and Bonnie rush at us, glittering and wild, their arms thrown wide.
“You bitches look fucking hot!” Bonnie howls, barely heard above the beat.
Linsey grabs my hand, Bonnie hooks Giuliana’s elbow, and they pull us deeper into the crush of bodies. “Five minutes,” Linsey laughs into my ear, “before Flash and his crew are all over you. Come on -meet Bulldozer and Crosshatch.”
They lead us to two mountains of muscle. One-Bulldozer-wears his blond hair long, ice-blue eyes flashing under tattooed skin, ink covering every inch from his neck down, even a streak across one cheekbone. The other-Crosshatch-dark hair, sharp jaw, blue eyes that glint like cold water, Hollywood handsome, a face that almost softens the hardness of his bulk. Tattoos swirl down his arms and hands, black ink on flawless skin.
Linsey beams, voice bright with pride and something rawer beneath. “Babe, this is Fiona, and her friend Sally-the ones I told you about. Ladies, this is my man, Crosshatch. The Viking over here is Bulldozer, Bonnie’s.”
Crosshatch lets his gaze roam over me, slow and predatory. “You didn’t tell me your new friends were so fucking gorgeous, babe.”
For a second, Linsey’s smile flickers, a crack in her armor, but she smooths it away, her laugh just a touch too high. Bonnie leans into Bulldozer, who offers us both a gentle, welcoming nod. Crosshatch keeps his stare fixed on me, hunger barely veiled.
Giuliana steps into the tension, all nervous charm. “Hi! You’ve got a hell of a clubhouse. Never seen one this big before.” Her words flutter, a peace offering to slice through the charge in the air.
Linsey and Bonnie giggle, the moment softening, and Bulldozer’s grin turns warm. Crosshatch, though, doesn’t blink. He stares at me like he’s already undressing me with his eyes.
A flicker of pity for Linsey flits through my mind-if she’s clinging to this guy, it’ll break her heart when I take him down. But that isn’t my problem. This isn’t about love, not for me. It’s about the job, the target, the finish.
“Sally and I need some shots,” I say, feigning bright excitement. “Let’s get this party started, girls!”
We rally a crowd of women, pulling them into a makeshift circle. Bottles clink, shouts rise. I keep my own shot glass filled with vodka-cut water, my smile broad and false. No one questions why Sally and I skip the tequila; the night is too loud, too wild, for details.
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The first stage is almost too easy. I slip away for a moment, grabbing four beers and carefully crushing painkillers into each. My hands move smoothly, confidently, hidden in plain sight. No one notices as I drift out to the gate, offering the doctored beers to the two prospects on guard. They thank me, grinning, eager for the attention of the new girl. I walk away before the bitterness can kick in.
Back inside, the shots flow. Giuliana and I make the rounds, bottle in hand, pouring streams of tequila straight into the open mouths of club members, laughter echoing with every gulp. The air grows heady, bodies loosening, eyes glassy and glazed. I scan the room-find the Ravagers’ President and VP propped at the bar, already deep into the bottle, their hunger for violence and women burning clear on
their faces.
I nod toward Giuliana. Game time.
We approach with predator’s grace, slipping between bodies, smiles sharpened. Both men turn to us, eyes devouring, pupils blown wide with lust and intoxication.
I drop onto the President’s lap, draping my arms around his neck, my voice honeyed and dark. “You boys up for a private show?”
His hands grip my waist, breath hot at my ear. “Fuck yes, baby.” He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, carrying me down the hall to a shadowed room. I glimpse Giuliana, her fingers linked with the VP’s, vanishing into darkness. I know the look in her eyes-calm and calculating, ready for anything.
We improvise from here. But improvisation, after all, is what we do best.
Par
<Ride the Wildfire
