Page 7 of SINS & Temptation

When I sneak a glance over her shoulder, the message isn’t exactly scandalous. Just a polite request for a few days off because family is in town.

But then, my gaze lands on the digits. The Chicago area code jumps out at me, but it’s the rest of the number that sends shockwaves through me like a hurricane ripping through a calm sea.

That number.

I know that number.

The damned thing is seared into my memory like a brand. It was a lifeline dangled in front of me like a carrot—a promise of escape when Uncle Andre and Rocco closed in.

It was my ticket out, scribbled hastily on the inside of a matchbook and shoved into my hands with a warning: if Uncle Andre or any of his goons touched me, that lifeline was gone.

I take in the Italian townhouse, its opulent furnishings, and the extravagant perks of an all-expenses-paid internship in Italy, and realization hits me like a mack-truck full of bricks.

Enzo.

“Squee,” Riley squeals. “My boss said take all the time I need.” She grabs me by both arms. “You’re about to see Italy, Riley-style.”

Riley-style means we’re eating, and we’re eating a lot. I flash the credit card with E. D’Angelo written across it. “And I’m about to treat you to anything you want.”

Riley claps her hands and bounces on her toes like she’s won the lottery. Not that she’ll have me splurge on anything beyond lunch and a gelato.

Hell, we could probably waltz into the nearest Lamborghini dealership, and Enzo wouldn’t even bat an eyelash.

Right?

Chapter Five

ENZO

No sane person would do this. But then again, sanity isn’t my strong suit.

For an hour straight, I pore over the images, one after another, suppressing the nauseating churn in my stomach. Dory’s search didn’t uncover any more pictures of my sister, Trinity, which is the good news.

The bad news is that she stumbled upon ten more of Kennedy. All nude. All underage. And all of them death warrants for the man—or men—who did this.

When I hunt down the scum responsible for this, I won’t rush. I’ll relish every moment as I strip them of their sight and crush every single one of their 206 bones.

It’s not Kennedy’s image that captures my attention as much as the backdrop behind her. The scenes, familiar rooms from the dance studio Kennedy teaches at, are unmistakable.

And since Clive Weston, former owner of said dance studio, has been my guest in a soundproof torture chamber just outside of Chicago, I’ll be wringing his body of more information as soon as I return.

I blow out a breath and send a text to Striker.

Me

Keep that bastard alive.

Striker

Which one?

Annoyed, I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Me

Andre’s banker.

Striker

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