Page 80 of SINS & Temptation

He laughs an evil fucking laugh. “What do you want to know, pretty boy?” Never mind that he’s still chasing me like the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the way he called me pretty boy.

But I need answers, so I do what I always do. I strike a deal. “The photos. He has photos of girls. Not digital. Real. Give me the name of Andre’s supplier, and I’ll let you live.”

Head cocked, he looks at me, confused. “Is this a joke?”

“Tell me what I need to know, and I promise to end this quickly.”

That makes him laugh so hard, now he’s doubled over.

Originally, I thought my uncle was just a low-life cockroach, peddling flesh because he wasn’t smart enough for a more sophisticated racket.

But, and I hate to admit this, I was wrong.

After chopping Uncle Andre at the knees in Italy, photos began showing up, delivered to me wherever I was. Sometimes by professional couriers, sometimes by whoever will do it for a buck. Always of Bella.

Kennedy, younger and younger, posed in different outfits. Dresses chosen by sick shits and predators to make her look like a doll.

Every single photo makes me want to lurch up whatever I’d eaten that day or kill someone with my bare hands.

Hence, my little interaction with Kreshnik here. No one’s more connected in human trafficking than the Albanians, and Kreshnik has all the answers.

Every pinch point, every vulnerability. So, if my uncle thought I’d back off once he started leveraging my wife, he’s dead fucking wrong.

When I zig and should’ve zagged, Kreshnik lands a direct hit. My body slams into the fencing, pain flaring in my side.

Dante’s voice cuts through the crowd with his usual pep talk, “Only morons go in alone.”

Groaning, I force myself up on my hands and knees, every movement sending fresh waves of agony through my body. Then I look up at him from inside of the cage. “Since when do you need an engraved invitation?”

“You sent me a text. ‘Going to war with Uncle Cocksucker. See you there.’ No place. No time. I had to track my own goddamn jet like I’d lost my phone.” He looks up and switches gears. “Incoming.”

I brace myself. As Kreshnik lunges to kick me in the gut, I catch his foot and twist until I hear a snap. He crashes to the floor with a satisfying thud.

Without missing a beat, I grab his other foot, rinse and repeat. He writhes in pain, howling like a wounded animal.

The crowd roars again, and someone tosses a heavy-duty chain into the center of the ring—the kind that can break bones with a single strike.

My sadistic streak kicks into high gear when Kreshnik starts army-crawling toward it. I stride over and kick it to the other side of the cage.

The rules are cutthroat. When weapons are tossed in, whoever touches it with their hands keeps it.

That’s why hands are usually the first casualties. Broken, smashed up, ripped right off—whatever it takes.

But me, I go for the feet. Give the mouse a sliver of hope, and they’ll race through your maze all damn day.

I snatch the chain just before his fingers are able to graze it and whip him once across the back. “The supplier,” I demand.

Kreshnik’s a beast—300 pounds, six foot seven. He fights at first, enraged and in pain. But after a few brutal hits to his arms, shoulders, and head, his fierce defiance crumbles.

His curses dissolve into mumbled groans. “You—” he gasps, struggling for breath.

I think he’s about to call me another name, when he spits, “You’re the supplier.”

I stumble back, stunned. “I’m the supplier?” I glance at Dante, who just shrugs. I’m about to press for more when the referee declares me the winner, shoving my hand high in the air, which is a bitch on my ribs.

I rush to Kreshnik, delivering a sharp slap to his face. “Explain yourself!” I hit him again. “Wake up!”

Then the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the match.

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