Page 64 of SINS & Lies

“No.” She lets out a frustrated breath. “Your other name. Your real name.”

My brows knit together hard. Confused, I repeat her words. “My real name?”

“Mellow? Ménage?”

My heart drops as my father’s proud Scottish name rises from the center of my chest to my lips. “Mullvain.”

CHAPTER 24

Enzo

When I glance around, Savannah Whitaker has magically vanished. Shocker. She’s probably hiding out in the bathroom, doing her best to avoid being tossed from the plane.

Which, with this dog using my fine wool suit as his personal sneeze guard, she should be scared shitless.

I shut my eyes tight, desperate to ignore both the scrap of fur at my feet and the jabbing pain at my skull.

His little paw batting at my knee makes that all but impossible. For a fleeting second, I picture drop-kicking the ball of fur into the cockpit.

Which would be followed by the glow of Kennedy’s murderous glare, so I refrain. He does it again. “Fuck off,” I mutter.

When I hear the delicate rip of his unclipped nail against my expensive slacks, I snap, “What?”

Without asking, the dog backs up, gives his rear end a shake, and jumps into my lap. Like his nickname is Death Wish.

My eyes narrow. “You’ve got three seconds. Choose to live, mutt.”

He doesn’t budge. With an exasperated sigh, I shove the dog off my lap and smooth out my slacks. He barks, and it takes a beat to realize I’m locked in a serious death glare with a dog.

My phone buzzes with a text, snapping me from my staring contest with Fido. The incoming text displays an anonymous sender and only a single number for the message.

7

Ah, my uncle, right on time. Apparently, he plans to remind me of my remaining time with Bella—on a daily basis, no doubt.

Or, maybe the cocksucker just wants to brag that he can actually count to seven, because I seriously had my doubts.

I down a gulp of scotch, annoyed.

Maybe it’s Rocco, peddling his usual brand of mind fucks, relishing in the cheap thrill of messing with my head.

Regardless of who sent the message, it elicits the same response: blinding, unadulterated rage.

With a muttered curse, I hurl my phone against the nearest wall, down the rest of my drink, and shut my eyes tight.

Seven days.

With most women, seven days is six days too many. But this is Kennedy, and I already know it won’t be nearly enough.

I like to think I can afford anything. Assets. Loyalties. Souls. But a war?

Putting Trinity’s safety on the line again?

Even I have my limits. And keeping my sister tucked away and safe is it. She’s been to the pit of hell and back again. Trinity’s been through enough.

But then again, so have I.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way the lunatic Scotsman whispers in my ear.

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