Page 10 of SINS & Lies

“I did not abandon you,” he grunts back. “I”—he thinks on it, finding just the right words—“had important business.” Then he adds, “Family business,” as if that makes it all better.

My anger frayed, I glare up at him. “You mean like the family business of cozying up to your uncle and telling him I’m a two-bit whore? That family business?”

“What was I supposed to tell him?” he asks, as if I’m slower than airport Wi-Fi.

Is that what he actually thinks? That I’m a two-bit whore?

If he wasn’t my lifeline right now, I’d flick him in the forehead.

“For the record, I do not cozy up to my uncle.”

“Strike a nerve, did I?” I ask.

His steps turn to stomps. “Do not push me, Kennedy.”

So now I’m Kennedy again. A big, blaring, Do Not Kick the Hornet’s Nest warning sign, I guess.

And he’s right. I really shouldn’t push him. The sane part of me knows this. That this broody, living god is rescuing me.

Despite his hardened jaw and steel behind his eyes, his grip on me tightens. It’s like watching an irate toddler stomp through the forest, protecting a precious toy.

Then his frustration snaps. “This isn’t working for me.” It’s as if he’s come to a decision. One that suddenly doesn’t include me.

What?

My jaw would’ve hit the ground if Enzo hadn’t been hauling me through the woods at a breakneck pace. Like a bull at a rodeo, my Scottish side charges into the fray, full force.

“News flash, Mr. D’Angelo. This—I gesture to my bashed-up body and his ridiculous blazer as my only article of clothing—“isn’t working for me either.”

Our words hang between us like a challenge, each of us daring the other to back down first. But deep down, I know there’s more between us than angry words and pent-up frustration.

And enough raw heat blazing between us to power the sun.

Tension escalates, thick and palpable, as we try—and fail—to keep our voices low. Out of sheer exasperation, I poke the bear. “Why didn’t you do what you mobsters normally do?”

“Criticizing my work?” He smirks. “And what is it you think we mobsters normally do?”

“I don’t know. Shoot him? Like, in the kneecaps or something?”

With the grace of a panther, Enzo effortlessly sidesteps a low-hanging branch, guiding us forward through a pitch-black patch of forest.

“I assure you, Bella, there’s nothing I’d love more than to put a bullet in his kneecap. Or something,” he huffs, his hold on me tightening. “Look around,” he prompts.

I do, feeling more lost than ever.

“It’s dark. If I fire at him, I might hit you,” he adds, adjusting me in his arms as he considers our next move. “And even if by some miracle I managed to hit him, chances are he’d fire back. Which means one of us would be dead. Possibly me,” he says, with a touch of sarcasm.

At least, I think it’s sarcasm.

Who knows?

There’s so much raw tension knotted between us, I’m not sure of anything anymore.

Except that he’s rescuing me. And I need to be more grateful and less dumping all my pent-up shit on the man carrying me out of the bowels of hell.

I let out a soft breath. “Thank you,” I utter.

“For not killing you myself when you got yourself kidnapped?” I swear, this man needs Jesus.

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