Page 10 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

ZVER

“N ot so fast, Mr. Ricci.”

My voice cuts through the marble hall as he nears the door.

He’s flanked by two of my guards. They hover, waiting for my order.

Kill him, or let him live.

Dismissively, I flick my wrist.

They’re gone. A blur of muscle and footsteps, the black bag meant for Ricardo’s head swinging from the bigger guard’s hand.

Ricardo studies me like a canvas—taking in every line, every detail from hairline to shoes. His gaze halts on the mask and lingers, as if he can sketch out the man hiding beneath it.

I don’t need him looking that closely.

I roll up my sleeves and extend a hand. A deliberate, calculated move to pull his attention elsewhere.

The skull ink burns dark against my skin, and I make damn sure he sees it.

Skepticism flickers across his face, tempered and wary. He tried to pin down the face of his nemesis and failed.

I wiggle my fingers.

“What?” His voice carries an edge.

Not the edge of a couture designer. But more of the D’Angelo pet project.

The boy who once folded like pressed silk in the grip of real power no longer exists. Smoke and Enzo saw to that. They sharpened his spine, smoothed his jagged edges, and shaped him into the perfect consigliere.

Which is exactly why I brought him here.

Riley needs a confidant.

And if the time comes, I don’t doubt he’d bleed out for any D’Angelo.

Even Kennedy.

Even her sister.

The real question is, when handed an instant ally, what kind of favor did my little Zapretnaya call in?

“The note.” I drag the word slow, Russian accent thick.

Not that it takes much—I’ve grown into it.

A flicker cuts through him.

Shoulders tighten. Lips press flat.

“It’s private,” he says, too firm, like he knows the word might matter to me.

It does. But I don’t let on. I don’t blink. Don’t lower my hand. “I’m waiting, Mr. Ricci.”

Then comes the ramble. His favorite stall tactic.

“Your girlfriend said it was for her sister.”

Girlfriend? Try captive.

He doesn’t grovel, doesn’t beg. Just pleads with facts, stripped clean of guilt.

“I didn’t see the harm in delivering it. I wasn’t going to show it to the D’Angelos. Only to her sister.”

I say nothing.

With enough reluctance to look brave but not stupid, Ricardo tugs the notepad from his pocket and hands it over.

I open it, and stare at the cryptic line scrawled across the paper.

I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.

A smirk threatens, but I bury it deep. Riley could’ve said pretty much anything. My top guesses?

Help, I’m trapped with a psychopath—send an army.

Or, I know where Zver lives. We can burn this motherfucker’s world down, lickety-split.

Or even the kind of sentimental Hallmark moment sisters eat up.

I love you. I miss you. By the way, I might be carrying your husband’s brother’s baby.

But no.

Instead, Riley’s being brave in her own sweet, twisted, totally fucking-up-my-plan-to-hell way.

She’s telling Kennedy not to worry.

And worse, she’s not giving me up.

Not to the D’Angelos.

Not even to the authorities.

Which was the whole point of gift-wrapping her a confidant in the first place.

He carrier-pigeons the message back. My brothers plot a rescue mission. Riley gets to safety without me tipping my whole goddamned hand.

Then I can get back to the real work—taking down my uncle and burning his underworld to ash.

It’s the kind of work that can kill me. And Riley. Which is why I need her and her damn distracting breasts gone.

But I can’t just drop her on the nearest street corner.

Two things happen if I do:

One, my uncle and his deadly parade of villains start circling because Bratva kings don’t let women go. Ever.

And two, we both end up tortured to death.

And with Riley, between her curves and that sharp tongue, they’ll make her their plaything first. Drag it out. Break her until there’s nothing left to fight with.

The thought slams into me, barbed and vicious. A ball of rage I force down.

It’s what they did to my sister.

It’s why I’m here. To make every last motherfucker pay. In blood.

But not yet. Not until I find my father.

I stare down at Riley’s note, and rake a hand through my hair, heat spiking under my skin.

Why the fuck won’t she just work with me for once?

Frustrated, I blow out a breath. “You can go.”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he gives me one sharp shake of the head.

“My notebook.”

I motion for the guards.

He digs in his men’s Louboutin heels. “I have designs in there,” Ricardo says, voice steady but slick. It’s not about the sketches. It’s a sly play to smuggle Riley’s note to Kennedy.

“Designs you’re willing to die for?”

I know I’m being an asshole. But I need him to fight harder than this.

And to feed every detail back to my brothers.

Dramatic as ever, he squares his shoulders, tone flat and stoic.

“A true designer would die for his art.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I toss the notebook back. He catches it one-handed, slides it into his pocket, and glances at the guards.

“Is the bag really necessary? I promise to keep my eyes closed.”

“Pinky swear?” I ask facetiously.

I snap my fingers.

The guard doesn’t even blink.

The black bag drops over his head.