Page 26 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

ZVER

“T hrow her in the trunk.”

My men move. No hesitation. No questions. They do as I say, period.

That kind of allegiance can’t be bought. It has to be forged.

I forged it by guaranteeing their families would always be safe. Not an easy promise for men who walked away from the Bratva. But one I’ve kept.

Two giants step forward, each clamping down on an arm. To anyone watching, it looks like they’re about to rip Elena apart, split her like a wishbone.

Truth is, they’re holding her together.

They lower her into the trunk with protective strength, bracing her so she doesn’t thrash or injure herself—the way people do when they’re already expecting the worst.

Does she resist?

Of course she does.

Who the hell wouldn’t fight getting shoved into a fucking trunk?

But once she’s inside, the fight bleeds out.

She knows what she’s facing. No exits. No safe spaces deep enough to crawl into. And if she keeps fighting, she’ll burn herself out fast.

Human instinct runs wild when fight or flight takes over. But if she’s lasted this long, she’s learned not to tempt them to pull the trigger.

So she goes still. Not calm. Not safe. Just still.

Her eyes lock on mine as I slam the trunk shut. Dead on the surface, but I see a few embers that refuse to die.

The will to live. A lone constellation in the dark.

And I’ll take it.

With that out of the way, I glance back. Andre fills the doorway, a smirk strung tighter than a noose.

I salute him. Neat. Controlled. A soldier’s gesture where a sniper’s bullet should’ve been.

I slide into the plush back seat as my driver rolls us forward. My jaw aches from grinding it too hard.

Once the gates slam shut behind us, I hit the seat release.

The seat beside me folds down with a soft click.

Elena flinches instantly, a wounded animal pressing herself into the farthest corner. Small. Coiled tight. Like she could fold her body out of existence if she tried hard enough.

It twists my gut like barbed wire because I’ve seen too many Elenas broken this way.

And because I’m the one putting that look in her eyes now.

I hand her a blanket, half a sandwich I didn’t finish, then a bottle of water. My voice stays even, but inside I’m a live wire strung too tight, ready to snap.

“Say nothing. Or it’ll cost you your life.”

She obeys.

For now.

Her eyes stay wide, white knuckles strangling the blanket to her chest.

She doesn’t touch the food or the water. Because she doesn’t trust me enough for that.

To her, I’m just another monster—same cruelty, different mask.

And she’s right.

Monsters don’t disappoint. They just bow to different masters.

My uncle’s master is greed.

Mine is darker. A hunger sharpened on blood and bone. I torture. I kill. And I decide who earns my wrath.

Judge, jury, and executioner. Satan incarnate.

When you’re sitting on a billion in stolen wealth, you don’t buy forgiveness.

You buy justice.

Not that any of this absolves me. I know it never will.

But it tips the scale.

Not enough to wipe the blood from my hands.

But I can live with that.

* * *

It takes us forty-five minutes to reach the drop. A safe house, hidden and far removed from the ones I used to run with Father Marc.

The thing is, even Father Marc thinks I’m dead. I know we could do more if we combined forces, but that would put a bigger target on his back.

The car slows in front of a lone church, isolated and half-forgotten, its stone steps cracked and weather-worn. Two of the stained-glass windows are shattered.

Mostly for show.

Behind them sit reinforced panes, bulletproof and blacked out.

The engine idles, then cuts. The car rolls to a stop, headlights flashing twice.

Sabine steps out to meet us.

My men ease Elena from the trunk, drape the blanket over her shoulders, and guide her inside.

“They’re waiting for her in the great room,” Sabine says, steering them down the right hall.

Elena moves like smoke. So fragile, almost transparent, as if she’s halfway gone.

Sabine catches the worry on my face and offers a small smile. “She’ll be okay. I promise.”

If I didn’t know what Sabine crawled out of, I might doubt her assurance.

But I do know.

Her own brother sold her into the slave trade at fifteen. Six months later, I found her on the block again. The sadistic auction was run by my uncle.

As Zver, I bought her.

People whisper about the women I buy. How no one ever sees them again. They assume the worst. And I let them.

What better way to make these women disappear.

Sabine could’ve vanished too. Taken a new name, in a new country, and lived ten lifetimes off the money I gave her.

Instead, she built this—our relocation ops—run with the precision of a warlord and the fire of a survivor.

She’s as badass as they come.

Once a rescue crosses her threshold, I’m done. Her op, her rules.

For all this, her price was small. “If you ever have enough power to take my brother out, do it. Don’t let me see him again.”

Giving her my word was an honor. And killing the fucker myself would be the highlight of my year.

Sabine leans down to my window, her presence grounding. Her accent always swings between Spanish and French. “We’ll take care of her. She won’t be alone, Zver.”

I give a single nod. “Do you think you’ll be able to get the necklace off her?”

Sabine thinks on it for a minute. “Not right away. Since your little stunt at the auction, the reinforcements on them are ten times as strong. Next, they’ll weld them into their goddamn skin.

” Her mouth twists in disgust. “She won’t be strong enough to travel for a few days.

Maybe a week. But we’ll get it off. If not now, then once we get her to the stronghold in Tuscany. ”

Tuscany .

Thirty thousand acres of untouched land, hidden far off the beaten path, guarded tighter than a nuclear launch pad. Nobody finds anyone there. The women and children who make it that far are safe.

But it gives me pause. “Not Palermo?”

She shakes her head. “Your eyes are bigger than your wallet, mon amie . Palermo’s cost is climbing to almost three times the estimate.”

I smirk.

This is Sabine’s subtle way of telling me she needs more cash in the account.

“Three times?” I drag a hand over my jaw, as if thinking it through. “Get Palermo going. Tell Dominic how much you need. It’ll be there by the end of the week.”

I know what’s really clawing at her. Not the money. The movement of it. People notice when hundreds of millions start to shift.

Like I give a fuck. I’ve got enough dark-web ghosts on my payroll to erase every breadcrumb before it lands.

Her brows pinch, suspicion etched deep.

“I can't believe I'm saying this, but you worry more than me, Sabine.”

“It’s my job. You pay me to worry.” Then she exhales, edged in relief. “If you’re sure. Because there are still the tunnels to finish under Tuscany.”

And there it is.

“Again with the tunnels?”

“The Vatican has tunnels. Versailles. Windsor Castle.”

I lift a hand, half in surrender, half respect. She’s never let this go. Not once.

“Fine. You wore me down. Build your tunnels. Hell, tunnel to the Vatican if it helps you sleep at night. Just keep your priest fantasies to yourself.”

Her lips twitch, a flicker of amusement breaking through. Then, she studies me for a beat. She can see there’s a question lodged in my throat. “What is it, Zver?”

“The girl. Mila?”

For the first time, Sabine’s smile softens. “I think you mean Layla.”

“Right,” I say quickly, repeating her new name. “Layla.”

“She’s adapting. Better than expected, considering… everything. She seems content enough to stay.”

“If she ever wants to leave,” I offer, “she can. She’ll have enough money to disappear anywhere she chooses.”

Anywhere but here.

She nods.

I shift, letting the thought settle before I push on. “And the new stronghold?”

“Portugal is coming along nicely. Better than expected. We’re ahead of schedule. Completion in three months.”

My guards return, and Sabine and I glance back at the church. A shadow lingers in the doorway.

Sabine’s voice drops low, sharp with urgency. “You’d better get out of here.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t expecting you today. Remember, you said it was my op. My rules. I need a safer way to get the girls out and?—”

That’s when a man steps forward from the entryway to help.

And that’s when I see him.

A ghost from my past.

Father Marc.

Shit .

I don’t wait for him to notice me. My voice is a growl. “Drive.”

The driver obeys, tires spitting gravel as we pull away from the church.

We’ve barely cleared the drive when unease sinks in, heavy and cold.

Did he see me?

One glimpse could destroy it all: me, my operation, the women and children I save. Or worse, it would shove him and every woman he’s rescued straight into the line of fire.

Fuck.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Dominic.

Just what I need. Another crisis.

He never calls unless something’s bleeding, burning, or blowing up. And since he’s babysitting my Pom, it could damn well be all three.

I answer. “Problem?”

“You could say that.” His voice is steady, but the edges fray with something I don’t like. Hesitation.

Then a beat of silence. Too long.

A sharp pinch lodges in my chest. “Keeping a homicidal maniac in suspense is a bad look. Just ask Emilio.”

“It’s Riley,” Dominic says. My pulse pumps harder. “She’s fine. But… I can’t talk now. Little ears and all.”

I picture Misha and Katya hanging on his every word—like the time they asked their babushka what a concrete shoe was.

Misha actually wanted to try one on.

Dominic lowers his voice. “You’ll want to see her when you get back.”

Tell me something I don’t know. Every time I walk through the door, I want to see her.

Most of my life, I’ve been the calm one. Cold. Collected. Kill first, ask later.

But with her? She’s the crack in my armor. My compulsion. My obsession.

My voice stays flat. “On my way now.”

I end the call and sink back into the seat, my mind already racing a mile ahead.

Another fire.

Why is it with Pom, there’s always another fire?