Page 4 of SINS & Lies

But with a single hand, Rocco shoves him to the ground. “You got this car.”

“It’s broke,” he complains, pointing out the busted taillight. “And that wasn’t the deal. You promised me twenty grand,” Clive argues, his voice trembling, outraged.

“Be smart, Clive. Just walk away.”

Clive is many things, but smart isn’t one of them. Despite the fact he’s a foot shorter than Rocco and has the physique of a janitor, he attacks, arms flailing.

Rocco smashes the bottle of Jack on the car, shards flying everywhere. In one swift move, he slices Clive’s cheek, the broken end now a lethal weapon at his neck. “D’Angelo may have beaten you up over this girl, but you fuck with me, and I’ll kill you.”

My mind scrambles to process what I just heard. Enzo had Clive beaten up?

For me?

As much as I’d like to luxuriate in that visual a little longer, I can’t. Hands up in surrender, Clive retreats, which I’m not sure is a good thing or a bad thing.

It leaves just me with the deranged man licking his lips. Which is a very bad thing.

High on drugs and rage, Rocco seizes my arm. I screech, terror shooting through every part of me as he drags me against his body. “That’s it. Scream for me.” Tears burn down my face as he slides a hand through my legs.

Then, I hear a sharp crack.

Rocco stops. Staggering backward, his eyes slam shut as he clutches his head. A trail of fresh blood seeps down his face, but his grip tightens like a vise on my leg.

Fueled by adrenaline, I kick his jaw so hard, he’s on the ground.

My relief is short-lived when I see Clive panting, a boulder the size of a bowling ball in his hands. His breaths are labored as he clutches his ribs and struggles for air.

I’m not sure if he has asthma or what, but outrunning him might be an option...as soon as I’m out of this trunk.

Huffing, he fixes me with a cold stare and cages me in. “Fine. If Rocco won’t pay, I’ll sell you to Andre. You should fetch a pretty penny, considering you’re Enzo’s girl.”

Enzo’s girl?

Images of Enzo flash through my mind like fireworks—his dark features and golden eyes etched against the backdrop of scotch and cigar smoke.

The only man who’s ever made me feel alive.

But then, that image fades, replaced by the twinkling eyes and undying spirit of my father. His voice sweeps through my thoughts, blustering with full-throttle Scottish strength.

“When your back’s to the wall, darlin’, ya fight.”

I fight.

I don’t think. I act.

A cry erupts from my throat as I unleash a barrage of swift kicks. I aim for Clive’s face, but I take what I can get—his gut, his chest, his jaw—until finally, he crumples to the ground like wet paper.

I leap from the trunk and scramble to the driver’s seat. Shit. No keys.

Desperation and panic grip me as I frantically search the car, then rush back to Clive, scouring his jacket and jeans pockets.

Nothing.

The angry moan of Rocco pierces the air as he starts to stir, groaning. His hand reaches into his pocket, and my heart races as I realize he’s going for a gun.

And I run.

Fear sets my direction. Without knowing where I am or which way to go, I bolt through the dark, blind.

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