Page 7 of SINS & Lies

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We walk in silence, covering ground quickly. Striker, with his ex-military tracking skills, and me, following close behind.

Dante handled Clive. How? Don’t know. Don’t care. As long as Clive Weston is out of Bella’s life once and for all, I’m good.

Dante’s also happens to be terrified of snakes, but he assured me that had nothing to do chomping at the bit to take care of Clive.

We trudge through terrain so thick, my shoe momentarily gets stuck. That’s when I see it. The crimson pocket square from my blazer, torn against a branch.

Striker moves to retrieve it.

“Leave it,” I say.

“You sure?” he asks, uncertainty in his eyes before reaching for it again.

“I said leave it.” This time, it’s a command. Part of me prefers not to get attached only to discover she’s dead.

And part of me—the one currently winning the arm wrestling match—has no use for things. It’s just a scrap of fabric. It isn’t Bella.

He does and moves along. As much as I hate to admit it, Striker’s skills are coming in handy. Between stealthily moving through brush and tracking the specks of blood like a hound, we’re plowing through this thicket of trees fast.

But it does nothing to quell the emotions rising against my insides like acid and consuming me whole.

Emotions the press credits me with lacking.

The problem is, we’re not just looking for Kennedy. We’re also hunting down Rocco, my uncle’s right-hand man. A notorious loose cannon, his violent streak and insatiable coke habit only add fuel to the fire, increasing the tally of rape victims in Chicago and across the state.

Without warning, all the visuals of Kennedy being served up on a platter to be his next victim explode with uncontrolled force.

Before I can even process what I’m doing, raw anger surges and my fist flies out, connecting with Striker’s jaw with a cold, hard thud.

Granted, his face is as hard as Mt. Rushmore and I might have a few broken knuckles, but I don’t let up. “When I say to scare someone, I don’t mean to break her fucking hand.”

That little nugget—that Kennedy’s already injured stirs in my gut like acid. I wanted her to call my goddamned number, not get roughed up by my own hired gun.

Striker doesn’t hit back, doesn’t retaliate. Instead, he remains eerily calm, a stark contrast to my own state of freaking the fuck out. “I get it. You feel”—he rubs a hand along his chin as if fishing for the right word—“out of control. But for the record, I never laid a hand on her.”

I’ll show him out of control. I level the gun between his eyes. “Did you or did you not hear me earlier? I hate liars.”

Both of his hands raise in surrender. “You said, and I’m paraphrasing, if I failed you, you’d have someone else do it.”

I lower the gun slightly. “And?”

“And, by the time I got to the bar, the guy was already roughing her up.”

Confused, I try to make sense of what he’s telling me when he lays a hand on my shoulder, clearly having lost his goddamned mind. “I get it, boss. You feel overwhelmed.” He opens his arms wide. “My therapist says a hug is always the answer.”

“A hug is never the answer,” I seethe, swatting his hand away. “What guy?”

Now it’s him who’s staring at me like I just licked an outlet. He points in the direction we’ve been tracking. “Rocco.”

And in that moment, all the pieces of the puzzle snap into place. What if Rocco connected the dots—his brother’s torture at my hand and my tangled on-again-off-again obsession with Kennedy? There’ll be no stopping him.

Rocco will unleash his vengeance with exacting precision—strike me right where it hurts.

He will torture her.

Rape her.

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