Page 103 of SINS & Temptation

Seriously?

One of the human tanks cracks his neck, a grin spreading across his face. “And here I thought this would be a challenge.”

I blow out a breath, rolling my eyes. “Trust me, we’re all disappointed.”

I motion to my brothers who are all in position.

Since I first stepped into this ring at the age of fifteen, things have changed. Enormous monitors now line the walls, and my uncle’s sniper team has expanded from two to four.

Their rifles are trained on me, while my brothers’ weapons are locked on them.

“Now,” I say.

Four shots ring out, and for a moment, the crowd roars, thinking the bloodbath has begun. But then they see me, still standing and very much alive.

Then, panic sets in. Like privileged rats fleeing a sinking ship, they scatter, a flash of diamonds and the clicks of designer shoes as they scramble over each other and run for their worthless lives.

I step forward and, with surgical precision, blow a kneecap off each of the men caged with me. I want them alive, to set an example.

“You brought . . . a . . . gun . . .” Tank A groans, writhing on the ground in agony.

“Yup, sure did,” I say, smirking. “Not sure why I didn’t think of it before.”

“How—?” Tank B chokes out, his voice a strangled mix between a gasp and a squirrel lodged in his throat.

And he’s right to ask.

Guns are strictly prohibited, except by my uncle, of course. They tend to end the match too quickly, like a turkey shoot in a barrel. Hence the reason for the thorough and somewhat intrusive body search.

My pat down was about halfway through when I shoved a knife into the guy’s throat. I could’ve gone for the gut, but he was about to scream for help, and I was crunched for time.

Very, very satisfying.

“Metal detectors . . .” one of them mutters.

“Oh, you know what I did with the metal detectors? I unplugged them! So, yeah, I have a gun,” I say patronizingly as I wave my gun in the air.

I look at the crowd, who for the most part have vacated. Though a few idiots are still taking bets.

My eyes land on Andre, perched high in his VIP tower as I wave. “You’re next, asshole.”

Angrily, he holds up more photos, as if he has an endless supply. Now, I know exactly what that bastard did. He showed our father pictures of Trinity, which is what pushed him to start talking to the Feds.

When Tank C or D—honestly, who’s keeping track—summons what’s left of his strength to grab at my leg, I shoot him in the head.

It’s like they never learn. Rock beats scissors. Scissors beat paper. Bullet beats dumbass. How tough is this to grasp?

Uncle Andre starts banging on the glass from his ivory, bulletproof-tower, brandishing his handful of incriminating photos. I look back up. “Oh, you mean like these?” I grab my own handful from my back pocket and flash them right back.

The thing is, family will never scrutinize lewd photographs of someone they love. Anyone with a conscience and a heart wouldn’t. That’s why I didn’t see it. Nobody did.

Kennedy’s heart.

The delicate heart-shaped freckle along the soft curve of her neck. The one she’s had since birth.

A digital photo would’ve been too easy to detect it—closer looks at pixels and shit. But fake photographs, printed in a dingy basement and manipulated with ancient fucking film, that’s a different story. The more yellow and blurry, the more authentic they seem. But it was an illusion.

It wasn’t Kennedy. It never was. And it wasn’t Trinity. Just their faces slapped onto the bodies of real victims. Girls and women I vow to spend the rest of my life avenging.

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