Page 46 of SINS & Lies

“What’s going on?” I press, my heart thudding hard against the cage of my ribs. Is it Uncle Andre? Or Rocco? Or any number of other threats this man probably deals with every hour, on the hour?

But he doesn’t respond, his attention focused elsewhere as he adjusts his lapel with precision.

“Enzo, what’s going on?” I repeat, pressing for answers.

Ignoring my plea, Enzo snaps his fingers.

What the fuck? Did he just snap to shut me up?

I open my mouth, ready to give him a piece of my mind, when a guard swoops in, tosses me over his shoulders like a sack of rice, and hauls me to the plane. “Hey!”

Truffles and Savannah are swallowed in the bodyguard’s wake, following obediently, as if this bizarre scenario is completely normal.

Once up the stairs and inside the cabin, the guard gently sets me on my feet. “Apologies, ma’am,” he says before swiftly pointing a finger in warning. “Don’t get off the plane.” With that, he exits.

Savannah settles in with Truffles while a flight attendant magically appears, offering champagne. Which only confirms my suspicions: I’m the only sane one here.

Savannah takes the flute, kicks off her shoes, and takes a sip, all casual-like, while I stand there, dumbfounded. “What?” she asks with a shrug. “You know how it is. Boys will be boys.”

Boys will be boys? Is that what they call it when Scarface decides to make a cameo and riddles the plane with bullets?

Right. Drink up, crazy lady. Drink up.

I glue my gaze out the window as my blood runs cold. A sleek black car with blackout tint zooms past every last member of Enzo’s security detail and screeches to a halt.

A hulking figure emerges. With a surly expression, muscles straining against his shirt, and dark shades that scream tough guy meets runway model, I’m not sure what to think.

From the looks of him—tall, dark, and menacing—I have a pretty good idea who he is.

And me being here? It’s not good.

Not good at all.

CHAPTER 17

Enzo

I straighten my cuff as the black car races toward me at record speed. One look at the driver, and I brace for impact.

The sleek sports car screeches to a stop. Wisely, my men maintain their distance. They’ve been with me long enough to know better than to interfere.

Hmm. He’s wearing my sunglasses. Which means he’s been snooping through my shit again. I wonder what else he stole.

Dante advances like an impending storm, his strides deliberate, his presence pure don’t fuck with me.

It’s a sight to behold, watching my usually composed and collected brother lose his absolute shit. Like having a seat, front-row, center, at the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius.

He grabs me by the shirt with a grip that could crush steel. “What the hell, Enzo?” His voice is a low growl, the anger barely contained.

I can’t help but flash him an innocent smile. “Problem, Dante?”

His eyes practically shoot fire as he gestures angrily towards the shiny new jet behind us. “Do you want to tell me why my black card has been charged for a fucking jet?”

I shrug, admiring it. “I needed a plane,” I reply casually.

Dante waves a hand towards the jet. “Obviously,” he mutters, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Besides, doesn’t it feel good to get all that pent-up frustration out? You need this kind of release. God knows you’re not getting it through sex.”

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