Page 30 of SINS & Lies

Her father warned me about how withdrawn she’s been, and it strikes a chord, reminding me of my own struggles after losing my mother.

But like me, Lily loves to dance.

Gently, I stroke her hair. “That’s okay,” I reassure her softly. “That’s what’s wonderful about dance. You never need words to express yourself, right?”

Lily’s big green eyes meet mine, and when she nods with a shy smile, it’s all I need to take her hand and lead her to the group.

As the kids finally settle into place, I take a deep breath and hold up a book. “Can anyone tell me what Angelina’s wearing?” I ask.

A chorus of excited voices fills the air as tiny hands shoot up eagerly. “Me! Me! Me!” they exclaim, each child vying for a chance to answer.

I nod encouragingly, pointing to little Emily. “Yes, Emily?”

Emily beams proudly, her face lighting up with excitement. “A tutu!” she exclaims, giggling as she fluffs her own tutu.

“That’s right! And what else?” I ask with a smile.

One little girl squeals as she hops to her feet. “Zo!”

Huh?

I whip around to where she’s pointing, Enzo’s sudden appearance at the door throwing me for a loop.

Despite the fact that he has a black eye and a small gash across his lip—an area I suddenly want to nibble and kiss—he’s still gorgeous. Hair mussed to perfection. Jaw carved from stone. Eyes blazing a path down my body.

The man is a god. A living, breathing, brooding god.

Which is unnerving, considering I don’t have on a shred of makeup, my hair’s a tangled mess, and the dress I’m wearing is a size too small and relentlessly determined to shove my breasts to my neck.

When I offered the kids snacks of peanut butter and jelly crackers, I never imagined my other outfit—a nicely fitting blush leotard and skirt—would be smeared like a napkin.

This dress—one I unearthed from the wardrobe room—was left here when the dance studio was in its prime and a troupe performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

It’s elegant, but one of the shoulder straps was completely shredded from the bodice, probably during a particularly challenging scene when Titania seems to float effortlessly, barely supported by her partner.

And the color? A billowy shade of unforgiving white.

It reveals absolutely everything, from the outline of my navel to my now embarrassingly pert nipples. The girls couldn’t care less, and the look is common for dance, but as his golden eyes trace a path down my body, I can’t help but hold my breath.

Licking my dry lips, I mouth, “What are you doing here?”

Before he can answer, the little girls rush all around him, their eyes wide with delight as they swarm.

I would’ve half expected him to ask if they were housebroken and worry that they might pee on his expensive shoes. But Enzo surprises me, smiling and greeting them as if they’re all long-lost friends.

Then he returns his gaze to me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The girls start tugging him by the hands, and patting the floor for him to sit. Which, Enzo Ares D’Angelo, the mafia god of war, actually does.

Without missing a beat, he glances at the book in my hands, points and says, “I see toe shoes.”

* * *

After two more books, the girls do what little girls do in the presence of an attentive adult: They show off.

I put on Taylor Swift’s latest song and beam with pride as they all strut their stuff to the beat.

Enzo steps behind me, his breath hot against my ear as he murmurs, “What are they doing?”

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