Page 29 of SINS & Lies

He screams in pain, his body twisting, fighting the restraints as he writhes in pain, dangling in the air.

I turn up the dial and hit him again. “Where?”

He passes out.

Frowning, Striker grabs the device from my hands before I can set the dial to max. “Do not make me kill you,” I warn.

“You need him alive, sir,” he reminds me. “Let us work him over. Go on your vacation. You could use the break.”

I glare at Striker, then at the man dangling precariously close to death, and back at Striker.

Deflated, I suck in a breath. Emotionally charged makes for bad torture and even worse information extraction. Plus, I need to save my strength for Clive. Bankers are a goldmine of information. Torturing Clive needs to be a marathon, not a sprint.

I nod, mindless and numb, as I pocket the photo and exit the room. I can’t believe I’m even admitting this, but Striker is right.

Ironically, so is Father Malone. God actually does have a plan.

And it’s even more fucked-up than I thought.

CHAPTER 10

Kennedy

“All right, everyone, gather ‘round,” I call out, my voice competing with the cacophony of giggles and chatter.

The classroom echoes with the sound of my clapping hands, a futile attempt to corral the attention of the unruly toddlers in the final moments of class.

Tiny bodies bounce and twirl, their tiny ballet slippers executing clumsy pirouettes and wobbly arabesques. Each one a whirlwind of movement, their enthusiasm infectious as they revel in the freedom of movement to Bach.

I weave through the colorful sea of miniature chairs and scattered toys to turn down the music.

My role has morphed from dance instructor to daycare manager. Most of their parents work, and I hate the idea of shooing these little dancers out the door with nowhere to go.

So, I do what I can to provide a safe haven—a place where their imaginations can soar and their spirits can thrive. With juice boxes and oatmeal cookies donated by a local bakery, I try to make their afternoons a fun, happy place that they’ll always cherish.

The same way mine was.

When I pitched the idea to the owner, her exact words were, “Do whatever you like. Anything you want.”

I should’ve been flattered, if she hadn’t looked oddly terrified when she said it.

Now that I have enough money to pay off Jimmy Luciano’s stupid debt, I’m done with that bastard forever. I’ve quit my other jobs and can finally pursue my passion: dance.

Or rather, pursue my love of dance vicariously through a group of precocious four- to six-year-olds.

Sure, it’s the lowest-paying gig in Chicago, and the tips are just gum wrappers and hand-drawn doodles, but it’s worth it.

While three squares of ramen a day might sustain my body, but this job feeds my soul.

Again, I clap. “Come on, it’s circle time,” I coax, gesturing toward the carpeted area at the front of the room.

Amidst the chaos, little Lily is engrossed in a book, oblivious to my attempts to corral the group. I gently place a hand on her shoulder, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s time to join us,” I say softly.

She holds up the book, and it’s one of my favorites. Angelina Ballerina.

“How about I read this to the group?” I ask.

“She can’t talk,” one of the children calls out, and I already know that Lily doesn’t speak. Not since her mother passed away.

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