Page 49 of SINS & Lies

The door clicks shut behind me, and my heart sinks as I realize this isn’t the bathroom. Luxuriously furnished with six overstuffed pillows, a plush down comforter, and an obnoxiously oversized king-size bed that practically screams big fucking deal.

Oh, my God. I stare in horror because it’s a bedroom.

It’s his bedroom.

We’re on a plane, right?

In the center of the bed sits a gift basket, practically begging to be investigated. I inch closer, my steps hesitant at first, then way too interested. My father used to say I had the curiosity of a cat.

Um, try a dozen.

The small, pink note attached reads,

To the best boy ever.

xo, S. W.

S. W.?

Savannah Whitaker. I’m not sure why I’m suddenly glaring at the card, but I am.

Is Savannah calling Enzo the best boy? Because that’s just weird.

Nosily, I rummage through the gift basket. What exactly did Ms. Whitaker get her best boy? Because if it’s chocolates, I’m eating them.

I don’t know what I was thinking I’d find, but when I tug out an item that looks like a glittery jock strap, I snort. Out loud. Because...“What the hell?”

Then, I turn it upside down to find it’s not a jock strap at all. It’s a vest. A little sequin vest that’s just big enough for Truffles. I stare at it and shake my head because it’s adorable. A little over-the-top, but hell, the dog is in a private jet with a celebrity trainer. Maybe nothing is over the top.

Next, I find a ridiculously cute fur-lined leather jacket, and I’m starting to feel like next to my dog, I’m the underdressed one. Clearly, he now has a stylist. I scan the tag and gasp.

How is this puppy costume five hundred dollars? All the clothes in my closet combined aren’t five hundred dollars. Is Idris Elba posing with him?

Because I could totally go for that.

I hold up the outfit and imagine Truffles prancing about in it at the dance studio, spreading joy to all who enter.

The little girls would go absolutely insane. Probably fight for who can behave the best for the sheer privilege of walking my little circus dog and picking up his poop.

Win-win.

Voices in the cabin snap me from my daydream. They’re getting louder. I press an ear to the door, though I’m not sure why. They’re loud. And headed this way. “There’s someone else here. I can smell her.”

Um, creepy.

What’s worse than being caught on Enzo’s plane? Being caught in his bedroom.

Panicked, I toss the outfit on the bed—no time to tidy up—and rush through the nearest door. Which seems to be to a closet.

As a matter of fact, it seems to be my closet. Except it’s eight-thousand times bigger and smells fresh like a fancy hotel.

My beat-up duffle bag rests on the floor, surrounded by all my neatly hung clothes. There are three oval windows across the back, and sheesh, you could park a car in here.

Okay, maybe not a car, but at least a Harley.

A loud, “What the fuck?” has me nearly jumping out of my skin.

Enzo and presumably his brother are intense. And fun. So fun. When his brother calls the rest of them—and apparently, there are a lot of D’Angelo brothers—they’re not the big, scary mob bosses from the headlines. They’re playful and sweet, teasing each other and sharing jokes.

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