Page 51 of SINS & Temptation

“I want to know how your arm is,” he says, motioning to the wound hidden beneath my shirt. “Consider it a warning shot. Mess with my operation again, and both your girl and her sister get sold to the highest bidder.”

I pull out a cigar and light it, letting the smoke curl around my face. The slow drag is calming, though not as much as envisioning a clean, straight slice across his neck, just below the jaw but above the Adam’s apple.

Or better yet, one swift stab through the artery, puncturing the esophagus and letting him drown in his own blood. At the very least, it would finally shut him up.

“You cost me a lot of money,” he goes on, as if he isn’t already a multi-millionaire several times over. But then again, he’s not a billionaire, thanks to me.

“And?” I ask, blowing a long puff of smoke in his face.

“And you’re going to make it up to me.” He holds up two fingers, a sinister smile twisting his lips. “You have two days with her. Then, either you hand her back...”

“Or?” I ask, underwhelmed.

“Or you can take on two. In the ring.” I swear, he’s the only man who calls an MMA cage a ring. And the implication is clear: the men I’d be fighting, probably armed with tire irons, chains, and baseball bats, would bring my uncle eight figures. Maybe even nine.

And the small fact that I’d be a walking vegetable if I survived only sweetens the deal for him.

I smile and walk to his car. “I’ll think about it,” I lie, studying the sleek angles of his car. It’s a flashy model I’ve never seen before.

“Do we have a deal?”

I don’t answer and walk around the side, inspecting it from a different angle.

He loses patience the way he always does with me. “Debts will be honored, Enzo.”

Mantra of our world. Debts will be honored. The entire reason Kennedy even made his radar. My heart kicks up a beat, remembering how she tastes when she comes?—

“Are you even listening?” he asks. “Or is your brain already oatmeal?”

He would know. It was the matches I did for him that made my brain the lost cause that it is.

“I have two days,” I repeat.

His laugh is cold and hollow, devoid of any real humor. “She must be one hell of a lay. I can’t wait to find out for myself.”

“You’ll never touch her,” I reply, my voice steady as I continue puffing my cigar calmly.

“And you and I both know your family will never support a war, and sure as hell not over a dime-a-dozen cunt.” He smacks my cheek, the sting sharp. “Think about it. Do the fight. I’ll even tell them to stay away from your face.”

We’re eye to eye. Or we would be if I didn’t tower over his pathetic ass.

I smirk. “You and I both know it won’t end there.” I flick a bug from the top of the dash. “Is this a limited edition or vintage?” I wonder aloud.

A small flicker of pride lights in his eyes, and his grin widens. “It’s a one-of-a-kind. Handcrafted.” He brushes his stubby fingers along the paint.

“How much?”

“Two and a half million dollars.”

“It’s nice.” I puff my cigar and turn to face him. I want to watch his expression as I shove the ash end of it on the hood.

It’s almost slow motion, his reflexes. The wave of shock melts his fake-ass demeanor and reddens his face with rage.

The threats he makes as he bitches about the custom gold flecks that can’t be reproduced in the destroyed paint. “You’re fucking dead,” and “I will end you.” Blah, blah, blah.

Frankly, the color looks like some kid melted down gray, green, and orange crayons and added a bunch of sparkly shit to it. I’m doing him a favor.

He shoves a gun under my chin. I press my own piece against his gut, relishing the surge of adrenaline through my veins. “Let’s fucking do this,” I growl, eyes locked onto his. “Mutual annihilation. Right here. Right now.”

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