Page 9 of Sinful Lord

I try to hold back my sigh, but inside, I’m already cringing. This isn’t how my life was supposed to turn out. Berlin was supposed to be an escape, not another trap.

“No, no, no,” the man slurs. His tiny black eyes pounce around the dim light, shimmering with dull mischief. “I belong here. Believe me. I’m the scum of the earth. A complete loser. It’s written all over my face. But your face? It was clearly drawn by a master. By God-himself even!”

“We’re all drawn by God, aren’t we?” I mutter. Placing the empty shot glass on the table, I lift my chin and gesture for him to order.

He chooses to ignore me.

“Ah, how true. You—you must be a poet,” he burps, leaning closer. “There are a lot of those in Berlin. Poets. The good ones have wealthy patrons. They don’t have to work in Kreuzberg bars.”

“I guess I must not be a good one then.”

“Or maybe you’re not a poet?”

At that, the man lets out another table-shaking burp. Someone elbows him in the back, but he hardly notices.

“What will it be?” I ask, pointing down at his empty glass.

When I first started working here, I might have jumped at the opportunity to speak about my art, about what I do. But the longer I’m stuck here, the less it feels like I do anything but serve drinks, fend off handsy customers, and hope that I’m not found by the army of mobsters I’m sure are looking for me.

The designation of what exactly I am has become a sore spot for me.

Last year, the answer would have been obvious.

I was a mafia princess. The youngest daughter of the Kilpatrick crime family. In my free time, I painted. My dream was to travel to Italy and study under a master.

But then life got in the way. War broke out. I was locked back into my gilded cage with more force than ever before. I was forcefully reminded of my true identity.

I wasn’t a mafia princess.

I was a captive.

Until I met him…

“What will it be? Hmmm,” the man ponders. “Can I have you?”

Thinking about Tytus makes my stomach flutter and my chest clench. But it also gives me a strange sense of confidence. If I can survive an encounter with that monster, I can deal with this drunk asshole.

“I’m not on the menu,” I say, reaching for the empty glass.

But the second I’m in range, the man lunges out and grabs my wrist.

“Does that mean I don’t have to pay for your services?” he grins. “Because—”

Before his damp fingers can dig too dip into my wrist, they’re shocked backward by the snap of a whip.

“Ouch!”

He lets go and I stumble back, dropping the glass. It rolls towards the bar ledge, pausing on the ridge before finally tipping over. All I can do is flinch as it shatters against the floor.

“Oops, my bad. I’ll let Elsa take that one out of my paycheck.”

When I look over to my left, I see the newest bartender. A short stocky woman who just started last night. She runs a hand through her short dyed-blue hair and shrugs.

“I… It’s… it’s okay,” I stutter, still reeling from the small shock. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” the woman smiles, before reaching out her tattoo-covered hand. “I’m Dana, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced yet.”

Behind us, the man who just laid his hand on me is shouting. But his angry words fade into the background as I reach out. In the back of my mind, all I can think of is how lonely I’ve been. Making friends in this city seems impossible.