Heart of Sin

Blurb I live my life by one rule and one rule only: men are only good for money. As a dancer at the Dollhouse, it’s how I survive. It’s my job to make their fantasies come true. For the right price. One night a familiar face walks in and throws me off my game. He makes me an offer too good to pass up. He wants the girlfriend experience. Be his and only his whenever he’s in town. Too easy. Or so I think. Soon I find myself catching real feelings. But what happens when a dangerous client from my past comes back And threatens to expose the real me I’ve kept a secret all this time? This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 Sienne Vega All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, visit: www.siennevegaauthor.com. Contents 1. Louis2. Tasha3. Tasha4. Louis5. Tasha6. Louis7. Tasha8. Tasha9. Louis10. Louis11. Tasha12. Louis13. Tasha14. Tasha15. Louis16. Louis17. Tasha18. Tasha19. Louis20. Tasha21. LouisSoundtrackStay ConnectedAlso by Sienne VegaAbout the Author ONELouisPLAYLIST: ♫ HOW DO I MAKE YOU LOVE ME? - THE WEEKND ♪ There are five types of drunks in this world. You’ve got the angry drunk who blows up and wants to fight everybody and their mom—even the houseplant. There’s the sloppy drunk who can’t hold their liquor. They trip over themselves and usually wind up at the toilet, coughing their guts out. Other types like the happy drunk and the reckless drunk are pretty self-explanatory. And then there’s my type of drunk—the emotional drunk—where a six-foot five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mafia enforcer sits at the bar counter and gets in his feelings. Fozzi is in the stool beside me, shaking his head. “I don’t get your issue. Those chicks were hot.” “Too much fake spray tan. I hate that stuff.” “That’s what baths are for. Make ‘em shower first. They’d do anything for the paycheck.” “Too much work.” Fozzi chinks his glass of whiskey against mine. “You’re not drunk enough. A couple more in you and you won’t give a fuck what’s spray tanned.” I shrug and toss back the last of my drink. “Doubt it. Besides, pretty sure they’re sisters.” “You expect too much. You’ve been away too long. Vegas girls are Vegas girls. They’re all the same.” I munch on the crushed ice I’ve sucked into my mouth and don’t say anything. Fozzi and I go back many years. We were both made in the Sorrentino family around the same time. Both worked for Giovanni—son of former Don Giuliano Sorrentino and now Don himself—and were integral parts of his crew here in Vegas. When Gio became Don, practically a King in the criminal world, shit changed. Some things for the better. A lot of things for the worse. Our old crew was split up. Certain guys like Fozzi stayed in Vegas under a new capo. Others like me stuck with Gio until he changed his mind. After a tragic incident involving Mrs. Falynn, Gio’s wife, I was moved to Jersey under Bonucci. I’ve been in a slump ever since. You’d think a weekend in Vegas would do me good—my old stomping grounds with familiar pals like Fozzi to party and live it up with. So far, the opposite’s happened. This whiskey has me in my feelings, about to fucking wax poetic about how lonely I am, and how I’d love some real companionship. Fozzi’s suggestion has only made me mopier. I’m not interested in bringing some fake as fuck, spray-tanned party girls up to my penthouse for the night. I want a real conversation. I want a real woman. I want... I let the rest of my thought die there. Who am I kidding? I know what I want. I’ve just been too much of a codardo to go after it. A go-getter type guy like Gio would’ve been making moves; he wouldn’t’ve stopped ’til he had what he wanted. It’s never been my style, but maybe that’s the problem. What I want is in this very city, and I’m sitting here at a casino bar chugging whiskey with Fozzi like a cazzo. Sitting here isn’t going to get me what I want. Neither is a night with sisters the skin color of Oompa Loompas. I need to take action. Take a chance. I toss a Ben Franklin on the bar counter and get up off the stool. Fozzi’s in the middle of trying to show me the pics some chick from Tinder has sent him. His brows raise in mild surprise and he stops talking midsentence. “Get up,” I tell him. “We’re going somewhere.” The Dollhouse is one of the most lucrative gentleman’s clubs in the city. Men go in loaded with wads of cash and end up broker than a kid working fast food by the end of the night. The girls are gorgeous, sexy, and know how to put on one hell of a show. Few men can visit the Dollhouse and not fall at least a little bit in love with one of the girls. Even Gio got caught up. One night, he’d visited the Dollhouse thinking he’d pick a woman to fuck and be done with it. He wound up so crazy for Mrs. Falynn, he risked becoming King of the Sorrentino empire over her. Next month, it’ll be three years since they married. Fozzi’s mouth waters the moment we walk into the gentleman’s club. It’s like dying and going to heaven—if heaven was blue-tinted and had an endless supply of alcohol. Everywhere we look there’s ass and titties. Beautiful women naked as the day they were born. Men ogling them, either from the general audience, or