Page 41 of SINS & Temptation

I relish every second of lacing up my elegant new dance slippers—a ruby red pair reminiscent of grand stages and seventy-piece orchestras.

Granted, I’m in my normal dancing-for-the-hell-of-it attire: leotard, sweatshirt, and messiest of messy buns. In the real world, I’d have no earthly reason to ever wear them. But today, oh, I’m wearing them.

For the next few hours, I’m wearing the shit out of these puppies.

The moment I lace up, I come alive.

My feet spring into a series of piqué turns, warming up as I circle the entire room. Almost instantly, I shed my sweatshirt, my body on absolute fire.

The polished hardwood floors and full-length mirrors urge me to push harder. Unlike the formidable grandeur of the grand Italian estate, this room and I are old childhood friends, our bond as familiar as a second skin.

I open Spotify and let it shuffle, the music setting the tone as I begin to move.

At first, it’s a mix of pop and jazz, light and freeing. I lose myself in the rhythm, each step and pirouette shedding layers of stress and fear. Dancing is my sanctuary, where joy peers through like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. And for the first time in forever, I feel light and free and alive.

After hours of working my body to the brink of fatigue, when the soft, magical notes of “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” fill the room, my heart skips a beat, memories flooding back, full force. Of Da clapping louder than anyone at the church recital, unapologetically and fiercely proud.

No one would ever suspect that a big, burly, towering lug of a man would be teary-eyed, whistling at the conclusion of my performance in “The Nutcracker” as if I were a Prima Ballerina at the Chicago Ballet Theater.

I close my eyes and let the music guide me across the floor, imagining his proud face in the audience, his rough hands coming together in applause. His deep voice cheering louder than anyone else’s, a mix of pride and love that made me feel cherished and adored.

Tears blur my vision. Ye did good, lass. Ye made yer Da proud.

For my whole life, I danced for him, even after he’d gone. Twirling and leaping across the floor, each movement a tribute to the man who always believed in me. Because no matter where I went or what I did, I knew he was with me. So close, I could open my eyes, and almost see him there.

As the final notes play, I hold the last pose a moment longer, breathless and a little teary—not because Da isn’t here, but because I feel his presence stronger than I have in years, and it’s all because of Enzo. The thought tugs at my heart, a bittersweet ache.

I wish Da could’ve met him.

I’m still riding the high of floating on air when the music stops abruptly, and my phone rings again. Which is weird, considering it must be an ungodly hour in the States.

Caller Unknown is about to get an earful. I snatch it up. “Hello?” I bark.

“Kennedy?” the man asks. Great, just what I need—a telemarketer.

“Look, I don’t have money for fake sheriff’s fundraisers or timeshares in Florida, not that I don’t believe in both worthy causes. I can’t extend the warranty on my nonexistent car, and as much as I’d love to switch my energy provider, mostly because I’m three months behind on paying them, you might want to call someone who actually has cash. So if there’s nothing else?—”

“Kennedy, this is Agent Caleb Knox.”

My ears perk up. First, he’s hanging around Riley to weasel his way into Enzo’s world, then he’s coaxed Savannah Whitaker into becoming his spy.

I’m not exactly sure how the FBI does that with the Dog Trainer to the Stars, though it’s definitely smart. I mean, what better way to get to know people than through their dogs?

“What do you want?”

“I’m just calling to see if you’re alright.”

There’s enough concern in his voice that my interest is piqued. I retie the loosened ribbon from my shoe. “Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

“You don’t know?”

I don’t like where this is going. If he tells me Enzo was with another woman last night, I’ll be devastated. “Know what?”

He exhales sharply, frustration evident. “I know you’re in a”—he struggles for the right word—“thing with Enzo D’Angelo.”

Thing? Did he just call us a thing? Like we’re what? Bad pasta or something. My pulse quickens, irritation bubbling to the surface.

Sure, maybe I can’t neatly define my relationship with Enzo, but I loathe how he reduced it to a mere thing, as if it were something so trivial, it’s distasteful. “My personal life is none of your concern, Agent Knox. So, if there’s nothing else?—”

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