Page 107 of Sinful Lies

“Your son, sir. That’s what’s wrong.”

Uncle Lorenzo took a step forward. “He shouldn’t’ve saved your ass. Should’ve let you die in the snow like a popsicle, you fucking bitch.”

Before he could blink, she turned and shot him in the leg.

I almost laughed.

He screamed, clutching his thigh.

Uncle Fernando slid his gun back under his vest. “Bastard deserved it.”

Yeah, he fucking had.

My father’s eyebrows shot up. “Miss Whitenhouse, you’ve crossed the fucking line!”

She took a step toward me, her eyes seething with rage—and something else.

Guilt.

“I never asked for your help, Lazzio.”

Her voice cut through the air, dark and venomous, masking the faint crack that betrayed her.

She’d been fending for herself for so long, the thought of someone stepping in and caring was almost offensive to her.

“Leave us.”

The men all holstered their guns and filed out, one by one, my father glaring at me with a look that could’ve burned a hole through stone—pure disappointment.

Vittori, of course, was the last one to move.

He strolled over to her, holding his hand out for his gun.

She rolled her eyes and shoved it into his palm.

He gave me a half-amused chuckle, his eyes glinting with that “good luck with this one” look, before strolling out.

“How’s your head, Miss Whitenhouse?”

She crossed her arms. “Good. How’s your leg?”

I scoffed, pushing myself up and striding toward her, doing my best to hide the grimace that tried to break through the facade.

The pain in my leg throbbed, but I shoved it down.

“Good,” I said, my voice flat.

She shook her head, eyes narrowing. “Liar.”

I closed the distance between us, moving slowly, until we were inches apart.

Her angry eyes, blazing with fire, softened for the briefest moment, and I knew—she felt it too.

That spark, that tension, or whatever the hell it was hanging in the air between us.

My hand slid to her chin, fingers curling gently as I tipped her face upward.

She sucked in a breath, and I leaned in close, inspecting the scar on her forehead.

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