Page 18 of SINS & Lies

But he’s only asking for one. Just one. Rocco. Unleashing his King Kong of a man on me, manno a manno. Or rather, gorilla man versus me, with both hands tied behind my back.

My uncle knows as well as I do that I can’t let the fight drag out. My thick skull can only take so many hits before I’m back in the hospital. Or worse, the morgue.

But if it means Kennedy gets a week of peace, free and clear, where she doesn’t have to look over her shoulder and Rocco stays away, I have to do it.

Ignoring the voices of Dante, the doctors, and worst of all, my own common sense, I agree with a single nod.

I can do one, right?

For Bella? I would do anything.

Fuck...

I should be put out of my misery just for thinking that.

It’s a deliberate move—no defensive posture, just letting my arms hang loosely at my sides. Fighting it will only make it worse, so I give in.

Seriously, what’s the worst that could happen, right?

Standing tall, chest out, chin up, I fix my gaze on Rocco and the Glock still clutched in his hand. His good hand.

The elusive Scottish brogue that’s haunted me for half my life returns out of nowhere, with a vengeance. Sometimes, he’s the voice of courage. Other times, the voice of madness.

This time, he comfortably straddles both, rushing straight out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Well? What are you waiting for? Do it!”

And just like that, Rocco strikes. His hand moves in a blur, connecting with my face, but strangely, I feel nothing. No fear, no pain—just a serene calmness washing over me.

Pure and utter peace.

The way it always happens when my world goes black.

CHAPTER 7

Enzo

I drift in and out of serene inner peace when suddenly, a voice shatters the silence. “That’s enough!” Firm, unyielding, and unmistakably Father Malone.

A few more minutes of shuteye would’ve been nice, considering that my lull to consciousness is met with a surge of agonizing pain.

Eyes closed, I gingerly reach for my jaw, wincing as I feel the swelling. It’s throbbing, and I might actually need a doctor. Or, at the very least, a dentist.

I pry open an eye, the effort amplifying the pain from mildly tortuous to excruciating agony.

To be clear, I can take a punch. I’ve been fighting men twice my size since I was fifteen. But the force of two pounds of steel, backed by a three-hundred-pound ape-man’s punch, has suddenly taken its toll.

“Can you stand?” Father Malone asks, coaxing me up.

A resounding “No!” screams out from the depths of my soul. But my pride duct tapes that guy’s mouth shut and shoves him into the trunk.

Punching through crashing pain and licking blood from my lip, I nod, gritting my teeth as I breathe through it. My head explodes as Father Malone helps me to my feet.

I watch as Andre and Rocco exchange smirks as they turn to leave. And a surge of emotion ripples through me like a sudden gust of wind, stirring the air around us with a dizzying, almost tangible force—the need to kill them.

Not figuratively. Literally.

I know it’s a visceral response—a primal instinct deep within me that rails against pain, against the antagonizing thought that if I lose, they win.

This dance is getting old. The one where Uncle Andre is my wrangler, and I’m his wild stallion chained to a post, kicking and bucking until exhaustion sets in and my spirit is stomped out.

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