Page 84 of SINS & Temptation

Even through the blur of tears, it’s her. Trinity. His sister. My thoughts trip over the vivid image, coming to a jarring halt.

Something’s not right.

I’ve come to know Enzo as many things—cold, ruthless, a torturer, a killer—he freely admits to them all. But a sick, sadistic bastard who would do this to his own sister?

No.

Deep down, I know this isn’t him. I can’t explain how, but I know it to my bones, my core.

My soul.

I try another drawer, another locked one. This time, the letter opener snaps in two as it forces the lock, but the drawer opens. Inside, there’s a very large gun and pictures of...me?

The photos are unsettling and twisted, and why don’t I remember any of them? I’m pretty sure I’d remember being dressed up in baby doll dresses with lots of bows.

I flip through them again and again, trying to jog my memory. But each time I look, I feel detached, like watching a crime show with gory images, able to dissect every detail because none of it is personal. It isn’t me.

Except it is me. I shake my head, sensing that something’s off. Something?—

“I wish you hadn’t found those.” Enzo’s voice cuts like ice, his eyes darkening until the gold melts into black. “I wanted to speak with you first.”

He stands there dripping wet, the towel around his waist barely covering his exposed form. A large black-and-blue bruise marks his lower ribs, and he shows no sign of a weapon.

Before I can second-guess myself, cold metal meets my palm, aimed squarely at his chest. “The only thing I want to hear from you is the truth.” Determined, I tighten my grip on the gun, fighting back the sting of tears. “Did you kill my father?”

There’s a desk between us. Not that it stops his presence from dominating the entire room.

He moves like a wild panther, the rise and fall of his broad, chiseled chest steady and hypnotic. His eyes hold a myriad of emotions yet remain void of any at all.

And I’m frozen.

Enzo takes another step, and I lift the heavy gun higher. It trembles as I struggle to keep it steady. “Answer me!”

His next few steps are silent, almost surreal, until the barrel is inches from his chest. A strangled sound escapes my throat, and fresh tears burn as they trail down my face. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

My voice trembles with a pleading note. He cocks his head, recognizing the desperation.

When his fingers brush against mine, my finger tightens on the trigger, just a fraction, before he murmurs, “If you want it to hurt, move it here.” He slides the gun below the bruised stain on his ribs, down to his gut.

I force the words out, stammering, “Tell me.”

“Or,” he continues, sliding the gun to another spot on his skin, “here.”

At this point, I’m blinking through the haze, tears blurring my vision, my heart lodged in my throat. “Enzo, please.”

So many emotions swim behind his glassy eyes, a turbulent sea, deep and dark. His words land softly between us—my father’s words. Tenderly, Enzo whispers, “What are you waiting for? Do it.”

The gun lowers, and my heart constricts with tight, sharp pain. I blink. “What did you say?”

Suddenly, the door opens, and all the men file in—his brothers and Sin. Protective and ready to draw their own weapons, to finish me before I finish him.

Sin shuts the door behind him. “Put down the gun, Kennedy,” he says, voice steady, words calm.

“No!” Enzo commands, throwing himself between his trigger-ready brothers and me.

The bewilderment on their faces mirrors my own.

“Get out of the way,” Dillon demands.

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