Page 38 of SINS & Lies

Do they have any idea how much a crate costs?

For twenty minutes, I've been so wrapped up in imagining Enzo's reaction to the chaos that is my apartment, I only just realized he hasn't once asked for directions.

Not only does Enzo know my address by heart, he seems perfectly at ease weaving in and out of traffic with his hand entwined with mine.

I decide to lay it all on the line and speak my mind. A terrible idea, I know. Yet the words just fly out. “You’re awfully affectionate for a guy who’s about to ditch me.”

His thumb dusts my fingers, but he stays silent.

“Can’t you get a booty call somewhere else?”

“You are not a booty call,” he grumbles.

“Then what would you call it? Because I’m pretty sure hit-it and quit-it is one of the basic definitions of a booty call.”

The tires squeal to a stop in front of my place, as if the universe knew he was coming and left him a spot.

He gets out, rounds the car in a huff, helps me out, and leads me up. “I said you’re not a booty call,” he says under his breath.

“Liar.”

We make our way through the building until we get to my door. Standing there, nerves fluttering, we both stare at it. Then, out of nowhere, Enzo D’Angelo, kingpin supreme and notorious womanizer, comes completely unhinged. “Keys!”

It’s as if the very fabric of his being will combust if we don’t have sex right here, right now. God, I’m so tempted to see what happens if I make him wait.

His expression turns desperate. “Kennedy,” he warns.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Warn me about what?” Enzo asks as I twist the key in the lock. Suddenly, a furry ball darts out from behind the door, circling our feet. “What the hell?” he says, eyeing Truffles with a mix of confusion and disdain. “You own a...rat?”

I bristle at his comment. “He’s a dog.”

Enzo arches an incredulous brow. “Sure, he is.” Truffles launches himself at Enzo’s gazillion-dollar loafers with a friendliness that takes me by surprise. My heart leaps into my throat as I watch my tiny furball of a dog nip at his laces.

Enzo’s reaction is swift, and I can feel my blood pressure spiking as he swoops in to scoop up Truffles, examining him closely. Panic courses through me, but before I can voice any protest, Enzo raises Truffles up to his face.

“Protecting your mom, are you?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle as he looks into Truffles’s eyes.

Truffles plants a single wet lick on Enzo’s nose, his tiny tongue leaving a trail behind. It softens the hard edges of Enzo’s features, surprising me.

“Yeah, I guess he is,” I admit, unable to conceal the warmth in my voice as I reach out to reclaim Truffles from Enzo’s hands. “He saved my life,” I say, meeting Enzo’s gaze as he turns to face me.

Enzo looks down his nose at Truffles, his expression unreadable. “That makes two of us.”

But he doesn’t hand him over. Instead, he continues to stroke Truffles’ fur, his gaze sweeping over my tiny apartment until it settles on the bed.

The bed is small, almost dollhouse-sized, next to his towering frame. His gaze shifts to the sofa, a worn-out piece of furniture missing a cushion.

Frowning, he strides over to the closet. If he thinks that cramped phone booth of a space is going to cut it, he’s wasting his time.

At this point, I’m not even sure what to say, but the silence is unnerving. It’s as if Enzo is just now processing how staggeringly different our stations really are and figuring out how to bow out of this it’s not a booty call gracefully.

Then he opens a drawer—my underwear drawer—and I die on the spot. It’s filled with undies of all vintages. You know—old, worn, elastic shot all to hell and back again.

With a single finger, he plucks out a pair of my panties. The black lace, pristine and untouched pair that has never seen the light of day. Mostly because I got them as one of those open a line of credit and get a free pair deals at a fancy boutique, but I’ve never had an occasion fancy enough to warrant them.

“This one,” he declares.

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