Page 65 of SINS & Temptation

My chances of outrunning or evading them are about as good as winning the lottery, and pretty much guarantee I’ll be shot. Multiple times.

Two men stand at the top of wide stone steps, looking like they stepped out of a Men in Black catalog. They’re thugs, too, but clearly outrank the others with their tailored suits and gold Ray-Bans. As soon as I take two steps up, they open a grand set of double doors.

“He’s waiting for you on the lawn. Straight down the hall,” one of them says.

My feet freeze, doubt anchoring me in place. But then, Da’s voice cuts through my fear, clear as a bell and so loud, I swear he’s right here with me. “What are you waiting for? Do it.”

And I do.

The grand double doors lead to a lavish foyer, the polished marble floors reflecting the glow of enormous crystal chandeliers above, all in a row.

Mirrored walls on either side catch my reflection, and I steal a glance at myself, surprised. Ricardo managed to transform me from a haggard mouse to a sultry temptress.

My already full lips are amplified by pouty lipstick. And the black dress I declined twice hugs every curve like a glove, yet comes off as flattering and sophisticated, a far departure from the stripperesque look I imagined from the sketch.

Ricardo was right—the first cut was the hardest. But once the initial shock passed, the straight razor left my hair with just enough length to be full and enough edge to be whimsical and fun.

Thank God he’s actually a world-famous fashion designer and not a maniacal ax murderer. When a box was delivered to Mr. Ricardo Ricci, I finally caught on. Though by his obsession with blade maintenance, he might be both.

“This way, Ms. Mullvain,” a man’s voice echoes from down the hall, as he opens another door.

The instant I step through, I’m hit with the thick scent of roses and the mouth-watering aroma of food. My stomach rumbles in response, a stark reminder that I can’t remember the last time I ate.

Soft music drifts through the air, mingling with laughter and murmured conversations—a symphony of opulence and wealth and rich people living it up.

If this is one of those virgin auctions I’ve read about in my latest shifter romance, these fuckers are in for a rude awakening.

I spot Enzo huddled with a group of men who all bear a striking resemblance to him. Same dark hair, same dominant stance. They seem deep in conversation, and I’m relieved when Enzo doesn’t immediately notice me.

Before I can gather my thoughts, a man approaches me with a tray of champagne. He offers me one.

“No thanks.”

“Take the glass, Kennedy.” It takes me a moment to recognize him—Agent Knox, dressed like the waitstaff and sporting a gun.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

“What am I doing here? I’m undercover. We received intel about a big event—a meeting between two rival factions. Something that could shake up the entire Chicago syndicate.”

“What?”

“I have no clue. I just got here, grabbed a tray, and spotted you. Barely recognized you.” His eyes flick across my body, lingering for a moment before shifting to the glass. I take it to avoid suspicion. “What are you doing here, Kennedy? Riley has been freaked out of her fucking mind.”

“Where is she?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Where?” I press with enough urgency that it’s all I can do not to grab him by the collar.

He rolls his eyes. “My place, okay?”

“Your place?” Protective alarms blare, and I narrow my eyes. His eyes dart away from mine, unable to hold my gaze. A flicker of unease crosses his face, like he’s guilty as sin and doesn’t want to admit it. “It’s fine,” he says, but the lack of conviction in his voice betrays him. “I think of her as a kid sister.”

Sure, he does.

His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on every detail of my dress and hair. “Are you trying to get more of D’Angelo’s attention?”

“No,” I say quickly, though I shamefully wonder if I would.

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