Page 65 of Deadly Sins

Ksenya: Handsome. My time of month is no more. When can I see you?

Mitch: Tonight. I can’t wait for you to sit on my face. I’ll pick you up @ 8.

Ah, Mitch. Such a gentleman.

I texted him my address. And plotted my revenge.

My mind unhinged, I raced into the kitchen to begin cooking my feast. Roman’s grandmother had graciously taught me how to cook classic Ukrainian recipes. As my hands kneaded the ground meat, I imagined that I was squeezing the life out of Mitch. When I chopped the onions, I fantasized about slitting his throat. As I boiled the cabbage, I imagined burning his flesh.

It was official. I was completely homicidal.

I rummaged through my stripper clothes and found the trashiest outfit I owned. A white Lycra tank top attached with a silver hoop to a skin-tight turquoise mini skirt. I zipped up some thigh-high vinyl boots and applied my war paint. Heavy foundation, black eyeliner, gobs of mascara, and bright red lipstick.

I frantically ran around my apartment, gathering my tools into a corner of my room. My gun, handcuffs, and Rohypnol—the drug that both Tiffany and I had been given.

Mitch…it had to be Mitch. I knew now that he’d been at the party where I’d been attacked, and at the party where Tiffany had died.

This motherfucker would confess to me tonight, and I could free Joaquín and get my life back.

I couldn’t wait to torture him. My depraved fantasies involved humiliation, him begging me for forgiveness, ruining his career and life. But he was a SEAL; I needed to plan out every little detail.

One thing was certain—Mitch had fucked with the wrong woman. He didn’t have a clue what I was capable of. And honestly, neither did I.