Page 12 of SINS & Temptation

I blink away the lust fog, clearing my throat. “I promised you I’d protect your sister, just as if she were my own. And, I did.”

She shakes her head incredulously. “By sending her halfway around the world to Italy? And you fabricated an entire internship? With a salary and an extravagant place to stay?”

“Yes.”

Her gentle fingers run through my hair, her eyes searching mine. “Why?”

“You wanted her safe. With my connections and my family ties to the region, nowhere in the world is safer than here. You and I made a deal, Bella. Remember?”

The faint blush tinting her cheeks tells me she definitely remembers me devouring her sweet pussy.

Sure, the bill to ensure her sister’s safety in Italy skyrocketing towards six figures in just a few weeks, the price tag is staggering.

But in exchange for Kennedy willingly offering herself to me on a platter, legs spread and telling me to eat her out?

Fucking priceless.

“I always keep my word,” I remind her, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.

Normally, my words would be cold, distant, and transactional—neither warm nor personal. But now they spill out oddly tender, infused with a depth of genuine care that even I don’t recognize.

Fuck. Who am I?

My phone pings, giving the control freak in me the chance to step in.

It’s a desperate attempt to detach myself from obsessing over Kennedy for even a minute more. A lifeline to reality I instantly seize.

I don’t make excuses or provide an explanation. I just grab it.

Striker

Followed your uncle and Rocco all day. Photos attached.

Rocco. The bastard who attacked Kennedy. Just the mention of his name has my jaw clenching so hard, I’m liable to crack a tooth.

I imagine his torture session starting with him dangling from a meathook and me etching “Thou Shalt Not Rape” twenty times into the flesh of his back with a soldering iron.

Rest assured, vengeance will be mine. It’s just won’t be today.

In the first image, my asshole uncle hands the local prete—or priest—an envelope, likely stuffed with cash. The moron still believes he can buy his way into heaven. Last I checked, St. Peter doesn’t do pay-to-play.

I flip through a few more images of him, barely registering Kennedy’s question of whether she should leave.

Random shots capture Andre and Rocco maneuvering around town, conferring with his army of Capos and his trusted Consigliere.

Hmm. The bastard is up to something. But what?

Kennedy is already on her feet, moving toward the door. “Savannah and I had an interesting chat on the plane.”

That grabs my attention, though I continue to focus on another cluster of images that pop up on my phone as I make my way to the sofa. “Did you?” I ask, distracted.

By this point, I’m so absorbed in the image on the screen that I only half hear what Bella says. “She told me you were handing me back to Andre the moment we return to the States.” A beat later, her timid voice asks, “Is that true?”

But her words don’t register above the rage pounding in my ears.

I’m staring at an image of Uncle Andre at a restaurant, flanked by Rocco and his useless entourage, and lo and behold, there’s Jimmy fucking Luciano among them.

He’s the reason Kennedy is in debt to begin with. “Debts will be honored,” I mutter under my breath, white-hot anger simmering just below the surface.

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