Page 22 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

ZVER

T he next day, I try to burn Pom from my thoughts.

I’m pretty sure nothing short of a Napalm will do the trick.

She’s everywhere. Under my skin. In my blood. And I can’t afford the distraction.

Not today.

Normally, I avoid my little Pom almost as fervently as she avoids me.

A mutual benefit, I guess.

She usually splits her time between Dominic’s kids, devouring her latest obsession—book eight in a series about vampires built like Hemsworths if the cover can be trusted—and scribbling hate mail about me in her journal.

Every word of which I eat up like chocolate fucking mousse.

But today, there can be no distractions. Not even Pom.

We roll up in two vehicles.

Me, in an armored Benz. My men, in a black unmarked van.

A driver, four guards, and enough firepower to start a small war.

Might as well hang a neon sign that says do not fuck with me .

But when it comes to Uncle Andre, communication’s never been his thing.

Which is why I’m packing extra insurance.

The house rises ahead, an insult to architecture and good taste. It’s equal parts grandiose and gaudy.

A shrine to excess, every gilded corner bleeds his corruption like pus from an open wound.

The grounds sprawl for hundreds of acres.

Miles of winding trails, each one laid over the bones of men who crossed him.

The first time I found one, I thought it was driftwood.

Turns out, femurs bleach fast under the sun.

Back when my father and uncle still played nice, my brothers and I tripped over enough bones to piece together half a skeleton.

“Mr. D’Angelo is expecting you, sir,” the butler says, opening my door.

I catch the Glock under his jacket.

Me and my men are welcomed right into the mouth of hell.

Andre D’Angelo has spent decades perfecting the art of proximity. He keeps close to anyone with real power, but only when he’s sure he can leash it.

He doesn’t deal in equals. Only pets.

Him rolling out the red carpet doesn’t surprise me.

Not because I’m his nephew—the one he paid to erase.

But because now, I’m Zver.

The Russian wildcard who kills whoever the fuck he wants. Even a D’Angelo.

When my uncle dangled a king’s fortune for Dante D’Angelo’s head, who better for the job?

I’ll admit, it’s almost touching he wanted me gone so badly he was willing to pay for it.

But not exactly a shock.

He thinks if he takes one of us down, the rest will topple like dominoes.

Cute theory. Because sanity’s never really been his thing.

He already failed with Enzo.

And thanks to Smoke’s wife, he’s wrapped in so much Bratva bubble wrap he’s untouchable.

Obviously, I was next on his hit list.

So, here I am, at his door, finally collecting payment for services rendered. Uncle Andre is a notorious late payer who uses any excuse to drag his feet.

But the longer I let it go, the more suspicious it looks.

Besides, I’ll put the cash to good use. Little does he know all that blood money has basically made him a one-man charity.

And this slice will build my next rescue operation in Palermo.

We make our way in, and every well-trained nerve in my body screams it’s a trap, it’s a trap .

I duct tape their mouths shut and keep going.

They take us through a back hall, out of the way, avoiding the main living area altogether. Which tells me everything.

The son of a bitch still lives here.

An eon later, we arrive at the great room.

He’s exactly where I expect him: by the fireplace, sipping some overpriced swill he probably thinks is good because he paid a small fortune for it.

He doesn’t look at me. “Instruct your men to wait outside.”

My men stiffen behind me.

But if I don’t give Uncle Andre what he wants, trust is off the table. And I need the fucker to trust me.

At least enough to get what I came for.

One flick of my hand and my men are gone. No hesitation.

Once the door shuts, Andre gestures to the chair across from him.

His gaze skims my mask for half a second before he snaps his fingers.

A girl drifts in from another room. Scant scraps of fabric, skin gone sallow. Starved down to nothing.

“Can I offer you a drink, sir?” she whispers, eyes glued to the floor.

My stomach turns, twisting tight. It takes everything not to end Andre right here and now.

Then I catch the holes in the wall. Three separate rifles trained on me.

Because one won’t do the job? Pussy.

I want to promise her freedom. But, I can’t. Not yet.

I also want to grind Andre’s face into the table for parading her in front of me like this.

But I breathe through it.

Instead, I smile. Cold. Hollow. And put on my real mask.

“What’s your name?” I ask, pretending to be interested.

Her voice trembles. “Elena.”

Unlike Riley’s, this girl’s necklace is green. A contract piece. Ninety days for more money than she and her family will see in a lifetime.

On paper, it looks irresistible.

The catch? Most don’t survive the first month.

The girl is bone-thin. Bruises stain her arms, welts from fists or a belt. Cigar burns scar her thigh, vanishing beneath her skirt.

My fists knot, bones straining against skin.

Fuck .

Rage floods every vein like molten steel. My pulse hammers so hard, it feels like it’s two seconds from splitting a rib.

It’s a trap.

He’s baiting you.

Do not lash out.

The mantra grinds through me, dulling the edge just enough.

I lick my lips, swallowing bile and disgust as I inject interest into my voice.

“If I need a drink, I’ll definitely find you.”

I turn back to Andre, my tone sliding into casual psychopath.

“Did you invite me here to watch you fuck her, or are we getting down to business?”

He waves a sloppy, dismissive hand and the girl scurries away, bare feet whispering against cold marble.

He reaches for the decanter, pours two tumblers, and pushes one toward me. “Drink.”

I meet his gaze, unblinking. “No.”

He nudges the glass forward another inch. “You came all this way. Do me the honor of toasting the man who took down Dante D’Angelo.”

I take it, swirl the amber liquid, and study it.

He wants me to drink. Desperately.

To be clear, I will never—this lifetime or the next—put anything this man touched near my mouth.

Poison has always been his game. Cyanide. Arsenic. Even that fucked-up brew they cook in the back alleys of Karachi.

Frankly, I’d rather die that way than from the filth festering under his fingernails.

For a man who shits more than a rhino, he’s never once turned on a bathroom sink.

Hard pass.

I lean back, lips curving. “If I wanted crap whiskey and cheap whores, we could’ve hit a bar.” My gaze drops to the carpet. “Persian?”

His chest swells, smug pride etched across his face. “Yes. Woven for a sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Seventeenth century. It’s worth ten times what I owe you. Perhaps you’d be interested.”

“I don’t think so.”

I tip the glass, swill bleeding into the threads, then drop the tumbler.

The dull thud of Baccarat crystal on a soaked weave is music to my ears.

Anger flares across his face. His hand twitches just so, and I know he’s two seconds from signaling his men to fire?—

Until I part my jacket.

That’s when his Jabba-the-Hutt expression curdles.

I’m strapped with enough plastique to turn his entire empire to ash.

He catches on, snorts. “They’ll just put a bullet in your head.”

“That’s why I have this.” I lift my hand, let him see the dead man’s switch glinting. “I go down, I let go. Andre and his merry band of fucktards go boom.”

The fury burning in his eyes is fucking priceless.

But it’s short-lived. He swallows it down.

He can’t afford to torch this bridge down. Now while the dumb shit’s standing dead center on it.

I draw a cigar from my jacket—the kind he really hates—strike a flame, and take a slow drag.

“Speaking of D’Angelo…” My voice goes flat, all business. “I’m still waiting to be paid.”

Andre exhales a defeated breath and sinks into his chair. “It seems I have something you want. And you have something I want. I propose a deal.”

“And what exactly is it you think I want?” My voice is smooth, detached. “Or rather—what do you think I want that I can’t take myself?”

His gaze flicks up, sharp as glass. “You’ve been very curious about the disappearance of my brother, Antonio.”

A smile creeps slow across my face. “Ask around. Your brother owed me over ten million. A small loan here, a gambling debt there. You know how it goes.”

It’s no secret my father liked to gamble. What most don’t know is he was a shark. To the tune of two million a year.

A secret he hid well.

It’s easy bait. And Andre nibbles at the hook. “I could just pay his debt.”

There it is. Another test.

One I’m ready for. “I didn’t realize you and your brother were close,” I murmur, leaning in. “In fact, the way I heard it, you might’ve been the one to make him disappear.” I puff smoke at his enormous face.

Andre’s mouth twitches, but I don’t give him a chance to respond.

“Your brother owed me ten million about six years ago. With compound interest, that debt’s closer to twenty-five today.

Not including fees, of course. If you’re willing to pay your brother’s debt, by all means—do it.

Spare your nephews more of my wrath. They are, after all, your brother’s children. ”

The color drains from his face.

See and raise, motherfucker.

He tugs at his collar. “I didn’t realize he owed you that much.”

“The only reason I haven’t come after you already,” I say smoothly, “is because debts don’t fall to siblings when there are heirs. And I’ve been taking small chunks of the D’Angelo debt out on his sons.”

Semi-true.

A handful of staged hits, smoke and mirrors.

Pocket change to Enzo. And, as Smoke likes to call it, the price of doing business.

Andre loosens his tie and reaches for a fresh bottle—different label, different vintage, different glass. “They’re grown men. They can take care of themselves.”

“So, my money?”

“You want information on Antonio…” His tone shifts, careful now, testing the air. “That’s worth something right?”

I lean back. “Go on.”

“I’ll dig up what I can. Make sure it finds its way to you. But I need something in return. A gesture of good will, really. Perhaps if we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

“What sort of arrangement?”

His eyes gleam. “You purchased a girl. The Mullvain girl. Is she still alive?”

Color me stunned. He almost sounds like he gives a shit.

But I don’t give anything away. “Whether the people I purchase live or die is up to me,” I say flatly.

Andre’s lips twitch. “My sources say she’s been spotted in some quaint little town so far off the map most people don’t even know it exists.”

Hackles rise along my neck. “Your point?”

“You misunderstand.” His eyes lock on mine, cold, calculating. “I’d like to buy her.”

What the fuck?

A slow, dangerous smile curls across my face. “Let’s say she is alive. What makes you think she’s in any condition to be sold?” I let out a low chuckle. “Even for parts?”

“I’ll take her in whatever condition she’s in. In exchange, I’ll give you everything you want. And the money I owe you.”

I study him. Calm. Too calm.

Then he leans forward, dangling the one thing—the only thing—that keeps me in this game.

“I’ll let you in on a secret. I know everything about Antonio. He was my brother, after all. I know his last steps, who he was with, what he was doing… and where he is now.”

Holy fucking shit.

“And I’ll tell you everything, Zver. Every detail. The moment you deliver the girl.”