Page 58 of SINS & Lies

Sin

“Shit,” I huff. If he’s calling at this hour, it can’t be good.

Which means as much as I don’t want to talk to him, I need to take his call. Besides, if ever there was a way to kill a boner...

I adjust myself and shift in my seat before answering. “Let me guess. Another paternity claim?” Which would be an outrageous lie. My dick hasn’t wanted anything but Kennedy in months.

Or, for the year before her.

The mere thought of sinking into her warm, soft body, naked and snuggled beneath a blanket, has him twitching again. And yet, I resist the urge to hang up the phone. I refrain from rushing back there, from bending her into any position I desire...

To take, take, take...

“Paternity test?” Sin scoffs, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Why? Has the woman you’ve kidnapped already filed a claim?”

I roll my eyes and do what I do best: deflect. “You’re slipping, Sin. I did not kidnap Savannah Whitaker. Check my books. Her services are paid for. At three times the going rate.”

“I mean the other woman you kidnapped,” he says, his words slicing through my bullshit like a samurai sword through butter. I’m poised with a dozen more lies when he adds, “The one with the dog.”

I swear, Dante’s mouth has a date with duct tape if he doesn’t stop narcing to Sin. Clearing my throat, I respond with forced composure. “I have not kidnapped her. She’s my guest.”

“Well, if she is who I think she is, the pleasure of her company has an expiration date.”

I sit up. “Who do you think she is?”

“Kennedy Luciano.” Tension grips my neck with the way he says her name—as if he knows her—until he adds, “Jimmy Luciano’s daughter.”

“Step-daughter,” I seethe. Is he the one who left those scars? Because I will happily leave him sitting in a vat of acid up to his neck, just to relish in his screams.

“Andre called. Reminding you that this little escapade lasts one week, or?—”

“Or what, Sin?” I interrupt, my voice a tight, low coil, ready to strike. “He should know better than to threaten me. I don’t need an excuse to go to war with my uncle.”

“No, but he needs one to go to war with you. And if this girl is riling you up the way I think she is, she’s it.” After a tense moment, his tone softens, paternal and pleading. “She owes him.”

“Her dirtbag stepfather owed him. Not her.” My argument tastes weak and bitter.

“And considering Jimmy Luciano is missing or dead, the debt falls to her. Period. Unless you have a claim,” Sin counters, his words tinged with hope. “Do you?”

My response is clipped. “No,” I huff. The fact that Kennedy Luciano and her worthless stepfather are the only ones in Chicago who aren’t indebted to me boggles my fucking mind.

“Will Andre sell her to you?”

“Absolutely. For D’Angelo Holdings or my head on a platter. Or both.”

“Then send her back,” he insists. “Before you get attached.” This is the point of the conversation I always hate with Sin. When his voice softens, sickly with so much paternal marshmallowyness, I nearly gag on it.

My silence is enough for him to switch from a carrot to a stick.

“You, more than anyone, know this game. We collect on our debts, and we don’t interfere with how others collect on theirs.”

More silence.

“You, yourself, enforce these very rules every goddamned day.”

His words sting like a slap. He’s not wrong. While some kings rule from their thrones, I’m down in the trenches, sleeves rolled up, hands dirty.

It’s exactly how I prefer it. Violence soothes me in ways very little else does. If you want a calm, rational mind, you go to Smoke. But if you want results, and don’t care how you get them, you come to me.

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