The Sinner's Club [18+] Complete

chapter one.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So excited for this story. I just want to clarify some things:

#1: I felt a bit limited at times only telling Amelia and Nate's story from her perspective so this story will be told from both Gabi AND Viktor's POVs.

#2: Some timeline things for the sake of clarity: Nate opened Sin City when he was 22 with backing from the Bratva (about 6 years before the start of Amelia/Nate's story). Gabi started working at Sin City not long after it opened. She's 2 years younger than Nate.

For the beginning of this story: She's been working at the club for a few months. Gabi is roughly 20. Viktor is older, mid 20s. There will be a time jump later.

Trigger warning: Just as Book #1, this is a DARK romance (if you're not sure what that is, google it!). It addresses dark themes including murder, assault, stalking and more. There is graphic violence and graphic sexual content. Please read with caution.

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IT STARTS WITH a bouquet of red roses.

They appear on my vanity table in the changing room of the club. I touch each petal, vibrant and perfect, the color of fresh blood.

There is no note, no indication of who left them for me, and there's only one person I can think of. I walk out of the changing room and find him in the hallway.

"Nate," I say, drawing his attention. I'm dressed in red lingerie, barely scraps of fabric covering me, but not once does his dark gaze dip lower than my face. He has no interest in me sexually—one of the few straight men I've met to express such a sentiment—and the feeling is mutual. "The roses?"

He shakes his head. "What are you talking about?"

"They were left on my vanity. I thought maybe it was you."

He pulls an unimpressed face. "What am I, your fucking boyfriend? No. It must've been someone from the club. I'll check with security, make sure no one has access to the changing room."

I nod, though I am unconvinced. Ever since Nate brought on Reaper a few months ago, security has been tighter than ever. More disciplined, more unyielding; it seems unlikely to me that any of the customers would ever make it back to the changing room before being thrown out.

More vigilant than usual, I finish my makeup—trying to ignore the roses—then head out onto the floor.

Sin City is a cesspool of depravity. Every customer is here to chase after their innermost desires, their unspoken fantasies. I can see it written out in their eyes, a story waiting to be told.

A businessman watches a couple fucking on a table. To the untrained eye, it may seem he's interested in the woman, but I know better. His gaze lingers on the man, on the muscular chest, on the glimpses of cock each time he pulls out only to thrust back in.