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

RILEY

The Present

“O nce upon a time… as in two months ago, there lived a girl. A girl who never asked for much. A strong cup of coffee. A thick book. And, in her deepest, darkest desires…to not get effed over by the universe every other day.”

I smooth a hand over the flat plane of my belly as I speak, and try not to obsess on the little plus sign of the fifth pregnancy test I took this morning.

“Life lesson number one,” I say to the little one rooting in my body. “When a nutjob with a knife fetish asks for a kiss… run.”

Annoyed, I blow out a breath.

“Why do they have a plus sign at all? You know what they need? A middle finger emoji. That’s what they need.”

My fingers skim the letters etched in stone.

Dante

“It’s pretty,” I say to no one. Flowery curls and fancy loops wrap around the cold, ruthless name D'Angelo. “It’s much too pretty to bleed all over.”

Not that I could. The marble is too cold and smooth to accidentally nick myself on.

A sound cracks the stillness. I freeze, head snapping to the side as I strain to listen.

No one ever comes here. Not anymore.

But in my head I can almost see it. A grieving parishioner, wandering the halls, desperate for a bathroom.

And I hear Dante’s ghostly growl, sharp-edged and annoyed: “It’s my mausoleum, not a goddamn outhouse.”

Silence settles back like dust.

Then I do what I always do.

I lay a fresh rose at the heart of the cold stone. “Zver used to leave peonies,” I murmur. “Then he caught me sniffing a fat red rose in the garden, and now it’s nothing but roses. I haven’t seen him in two months, and still…”

My fingertips skim the mountain of roses stacked high against the stone. Every shade of red bleeds together. Fresh, bright scarlets deepen to crimson. Bruised maroon collapsing into brittle blacks.

They’re too beautiful to throw away. So I keep shoving them aside, carving space for the next offering. “At least roses die beautifully.”

They’ve become Zver’s calling card. His reminder that he’s always around. Cameras in every room. His scent curling through the air while I sleep. And in the morning, roses. Freshly cut.

A thorn pricks my finger. A tiny, hot sting. I suck the spot without thinking.

“I wish you’d clue me in,” I mutter under my breath, irritation souring into unease. “Am I just some vintage Barbie he plans to keep untouched in the box… or is this the calm before the storm?”

More stupid silence.

I find that if you force enough casualness into a conversation, having discussions with a ghost seems totally normal.

Almost as normal as my weird obsession with gravestones. “Three days ago, I found one newer than the rest.” I shake my head, half a laugh. “Tombstone tourism. Never thought that would be my kink, but here we are.”

I draw a breath. For a ghost, Dante’s turned into one hell of a therapist.

“Nothing ornate,” I murmur. “No marble angels. No grand carvings. Just a massive stone marker, half-buried in the dirt.” My tone softens. “ Dream Team. Do you think it’s a regiment. A band of brothers. It’s become my guiding light. I know I’m not lost when I see that same curling e. ”

My finger loops the e again and again.

“It’s probably why Zver lets me come here. I’ve walked an hour in every direction. There’s nowhere to go but in the ground.”

A bitter laugh slips from my lips.

I hate talking to myself like a lunatic. And still, I keep at it.

“You two ever bump into each other? Maybe the two of chat? Spar?” I rub an infinity sign on my belly, fighting the tears. “Don’t kick his ass too hard, Da. He might just be the father of your grandchild.”

Before a riptide of tears completely drags me under, I let out a slow, steady breath in one word.

“ Fuck .”

For a long while, I just sit. How can I rescue my baby if I can’t even rescue myself?

Worried fingers strum along my jeans. I’m about to have a freaking baby. How the fuck do I do this alone?

I suck in a breath and shift gears.

“Maybe the two of you don’t see each other at all.” I flick a small grain of dirt off a petal. “Da’s probably got magnificent wings while you’re downstairs roasting marshmallows on brimstone.”

My watch chimes. As much as I’d like to stomp it like a roach, I simply press the button and shut it off.

Three hours of freedom. That’s what I get for being good.

Freedom… in a graveyard. Not the classic definition of freedom , but when you’re a captive, you take what you can get.

My head falls against the cold marble slab. “You broke my heart, asshole.” My throat tightens. “Getting blown up? Seriously? Worst timing ever.”

I let out a breath.

“First I’m seduced by one monster—aka you . Now I’m owned by another.”

A tear slips down my cheek and dots the floor.

“I hate you,” I whisper. “Hate you for dying. For leaving me. For leaving… us .”

The watch dings again. I glare at it.

“Fuck, you’re annoying.”

Shit.

You’re going to be a mother, Riley. Try saying fudge . Like Kennedy used to.

“Fudge,” I mutter, the word tasting about as satisfying as kitty litter.

God, I need Kennedy. She’s the only family I have. “I can’t have a baby without my fudging sister?” I say aloud. “The little boogie monster’s gonna end up with a worse potty mouth than mine.”

When the chime pings a third time, I’m ready to throw it across the room.

Reluctantly, I shuffle to the door.

Fine.

Whatever.

This watch has one purpose in life. To annoy me to death with incessant reminders from Dominic. Yes. Heard you. Time’s almost up.

It does that and tell the time. But outgoing calls? Texts? Any real lifeline to the outside world?

Blocked.

Fudging fucking useless.

I hurry down the hall and slip back through the narrow gate opening. “ Ow .” Rusted metal scrapes my skin.

What happens when my belly swells, and I can’t wedge myself through the iron bars of the mausoleum gate? Who will take my confessions then?

I rush down the path until I spot the sleek black car. Then I slow from a jog to a walk.

Dominic waves his hand. When I slow even more, he barks, “Riley!”

He pockets his phone and opens the back door. Impatience is carved deep into every line of his face.

“What’s the rush, dad?” I taunt. “Evil Master grants me three hours of freedom for being good.” I tap my watch pointedly. “Plenty o’ time.”

“Did you forget you’re having dinner with Zver tonight?”

“More like I blocked it out.” I snap back because, yes, I totally forgot.

Is pregnancy brain an actual thing?

And for the record, I figured if he found his Tonight, Zapretnaya note crumpled in the trash, he would’ve taken the hint.

Apparently not.

“I was promised a pharmacy stop,” I tack on quickly.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a heavy sigh. The deep scars across his knuckles remind me he probably likes this arrangement even less than I do.

And just how dangerous Zver truly is.

Dominic’s gaze narrows on me. “Just the pharmacy?”

Ah, he knows me so well. I can usually slip away to the bookstore before Zver’s guards scoop me up.

Sadly, both the pharmacy and bookstore seem to be under his thumb. Every note I passed them the first few times were promptly crumpled and tossed in the trash. Right in front of me.

“Yes.” My words are solemn, but it’s a bold face lie.

Dominic checks his watch, jaw tight. “Thirty minutes, tops.”

His stern don’t-fuck-me-up-with-my-boss warning bleeds from his expression.

“Thirty minutes.” I cross my heart and duck into the back seat.

Because half an hour is all the time I need.