Page 15 of SINS & Lies

“That looks like it hurt,” I quip. “Must be a real bitch to jerk off with.”

“I guess I’ll just have your girl do it for me.”

My gaze locks with Rocco’s, a silent challenge passing between us, daring him to make a move. One move—any move—and church or no church, I will end him.

Before I add a bullet hole to his head to match the one in his hand, Andre plants himself between us. “You know the rules, Enzo,” he says, as if I’m new to the game. “Luciano owes me, therefore the girl owes me. No one and nothing can erase that debt. Only I have that power.”

His words bear down on me like dead weight, but I stand my ground, easily towering over both of them. When I finally speak, my voice comes out flat. “Thanks for the lesson in Crime Boss 101.”

Uncle Andre doesn’t ease up. “Don’t bother pretending Jimmy Luciano’s daughter doesn’t mean something to you,” he says, his tone softening just slightly. “I know she does.”

Taking a slow, deep breath, biting back the inclination to say stepdaughter. It would tip my hand and expose just how interested I am.

I try to steady my racing pulse, tuning in to the soothing rustle of leaves and the playful chirping of nearby sparrows.

Kennedy has somehow slipped her way past my defenses and into the heart of my dark world. Cutting her loose would be like tossing her over the fence into Uncle Andre’s backyard—straight into Rocco’s sadistic playground.

Instead of reacting—admitting or denying anything at all, I pretend that whether Kennedy Luciano lives or dies doesn’t matter. “Get to your point.”

He pulls out a vial from his jacket, returning to his seat with a grin. Tapping half the coke on the backside of his hand, he extends the rest towards me.

I refuse with a bored wave, and he tosses the remainder to Rocco, who eagerly snorts it up, leaving a trail of snot all over his hand.

Fucking gross.

“I made you, Enzo,” my uncle says. “Or have you conveniently forgotten?”

The scars etched across my arms, chest, and back serve as constant reminders. How could I forget?

With narrowed eyes, Uncle Andre cuts through the bullshit and gets to the point. He presents it like a fine meal, with my head as the main course. “Join me,” he says, “and Kennedy’s debt is yours.”

And there it is. What he really wants.

Me.

Indebted to him.

Kennedy’s life for mine.

Like butter melting under the midday sun, my composure begins to dissolve beneath his watchful gaze. The tension in my jaw, the hardened glare I suddenly can’t shake, the stabbing pain at the base of my neck—every tell betrays me, at the worst possible time.

My emotions swarm like angry bees, relentless and fierce within me. Battling them one by one? Manageable. But facing them all at once? It’s like wrestling with a beast, powerful and desperate for action.

I hate that my uncle knows her name.

I hate hearing those three perfect syllables marred by the edges of his mouth.

But above all of that, I hate this. The effect she has on me.

Just hearing her name in this conversation has my pulse racing like a snare drum at a halftime show, and it’s infuriating.

It’s as if that dark, inky void in the center of my chest suddenly feels a glimmer of warmth and is gravitating towards it.

As if a life without Kennedy Luciano is nothing but a lie.

Fuck.

Who am I?

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