Page 44 of SINS & Lies

I shake my head. “Nothing.” I know, I know. It’s a big, fat lie.

Which he must read all over my face. His hand reaches into his blazer and tugs a flask from his pocket. “Here.” He hands it over. “This will help.”

I shake it. Surprisingly, it’s full. I caught glimpses of him swigging it while he was waiting. “I’m surprised there’s anything left,” I quip, unscrewing the cap and sniffing the contents before giving a long, leisurely inhale.

Mmm. Scotch. It reminds me of Da.

“Trust me, Bella, when it comes to me, you’ll always have more to take,” he retorts, his words decidedly naughty.

My legs clench in response, and the squeak that escapes my throat is audible as I take a swig, swallowing the smooth burn. The drink coats my throat, melting into my insides until most of my nerves wash away.

When we reach a checkpoint, an intimidating guard nods before waving the car through. Enzo pulls forward to a secluded area of the airport.

There, a private jet waits, flanked by a team of formidable security detail. They’re good-looking, impeccably dressed, and armed to the hilt—a stark reminder of who Enzo D’Angelo is and that he’s not to be fucked with.

I take another swig. “Thanks,” I say meekly.

He studies me. “Note to self: this one drinks like a fish and needs her own flask.”

This one. Two little words that instantly have me scowling, though, he’s not wrong.

It’s been years since I’ve had scotch, and the stuff was as smooth as kitty litter. But after Da passed, I’d do anything to get close to him. Sleep in his bed. Wear his T-shirts. Even drink stuff that would grow hair on my chest and easily pass for kerosene with just a hint of armpit sweat.

It took over a year to go through Da’s last bottle. But by the last drop, I’d acquired the taste.

As my hand reaches for the door handle, it swings open, and I get a full frontal of the enormous beast before me.

It’s big. It’s black. And it’s got Death to All Who Enter written all over it.

It’s a jet. His jet. With a giant capital D on the tail, which I assume stands for D’Angelo and not dick.

My heart stops, and I freeze.

Gently, Enzo’s hand takes mine. “Don’t worry, Bella. There’s more booze on the plane.”

“Har.”

He ushers me across a black carpet to the stairs. Amidst the intimidating figures standing guard is a woman. A very beautiful woman with chestnut brown hair, a bright pink suit, and a vibrant red scarf. Somehow, she seems familiar.

She’s sporting just enough cleavage to make me wonder if Enzo is looking for a threesome.

Because, shit, what if he is? I mean, my deal with the devil didn’t even have fine print. It was exceptionally clear: anything.

I swallow hard, not sure I could actually munch on a taco. Could I?

Her warm smile widens as her glittering eyes glaze over my body as I down the rest of the flask.

“You must be Ms. Luciano,” she greets me, her tone polite. Professional, even. Her use of Jimmy’s last name doesn’t irritate me nearly as much as the alcohol works its way through my veins.

“Kennedy,” I say, breathier than intended. Partially because of the booze, but more because Enzo just slipped his warm hand onto the small of my back.

“And this must be Ruffles,” she coos, reaching for the dog in my arms.

“Truffles.” At least one of us should have our name right.

“Savannah Whitaker,” she says, extending a hand with a warm smile. Recognition dawns.

She’s famous. Like, has her own show and brand of organic dog food kind of famous. The go-to person for celebrities—as in Dog Trainer to the Stars Savannah Whitaker.

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