Page 27 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)
ZVER
B y the time I reach the house, Dominic’s already waiting. Scrapes streak his brow, dirt and blood mixed with sweat.
Alarm bells ring in the back of my head. Something happened. And Pom was at the center of it.
I ask the only question that matters. “Is she okay?”
He gives a short nod. “She’s…fine.”
His words are too hollow to be convincing.
My voice sharpens. “What happened?”
“I took Riley to the cemetery, same as always.”
No surprise there. The girl’s mildly obsessed with my ghost. A trait I happen to adore.
So sue me.
He drags a hand down his face. “But there were too many cars. More than there should’ve been. I should’ve gone in with her.”
The storm in my head roars to life, spinning in a hundred brutal directions. If someone hurt her. Touched her?—
My focus narrows to a single point.
Kill .
I just need a name.
Jagged words spill out of him, one after the other. “I don't know how many men there were. Enzo was there. Another man, too. Someone he fought with. Riley was caught in the middle.”
“Enzo?”
My brother’s men have been circling the mausoleum more than ever lately. Security sweeps three times a day.
Why? I haven’t a fucking clue.
A definite departure from the norm, considering he couldn’t even bother showing up for the funeral.
Or the wake.
I try not to take it personally, but really? Would it have killed him to send flowers?
I am his brother, after all.
Dominic exhales, the sound rough, scraped raw from someplace deep. “There was…” He swallows, hesitation dragging it out before he finally forces the word free. “Gunfire.”
“Gunfire?” The word detonates in my chest. “With Pom?”
Violent, white-hot heat sears through me, a nuclear reactor primed to blow.
“She’s unharmed,” he rushes out, as if saying it fast makes it softer. “Her ankle—I thought it might’ve been sprained, but it’s fine.”
Caging my fury is like trying to leash a storm.
Still, I drag in a breath sharp enough to cut, and force calm where none exists.
Guilt carves deep lines across Dominic’s face. “I couldn’t find much.” He pulls out his phone, scrolling until he lands on the shot. “I had the men circle back. No body. No blood. Just this.”
One word. That’s all it takes to rip me open in too many directions at once.
Positive
Confirmation that Riley’s pregnant. Yes, I knew it already, but seeing it printed in black and white slams it home. Official. Real. And in a twisted way… fucking incredible.
Then my eyes catch the name of the ordering physician, and I let out a long, slow breath.
Dr. Sterling.
The same worthless fuckwit who happened to stab his own hand and had to stitch it up like a back-alley butcher. I don’t know if he’s too stupid, or too brazen, to take the goddamn hint.
What? Does he need it tattooed across his fucking forehead? Stay away from my girl.
Seriously, fuck Darwinism. It moves at a goddamn snails pace with men like him.
I can think of a dozen ways to accelerate the process.
Dominic reads my violent streak like a kids’ menu coloring page—easy lines, no room for confusion—and simply shakes his head. “Riley won’t discuss it.”
Of course, she won’t. My little chatterbox tends to clam up when she openly defies me.
A sharp, humorless laugh scrapes out of me. “Then she learns the hard way. She doesn’t get a choice.”
When is she going to get it through her thick, beautiful head that when it comes to her, there are no secrets.
I mean, I already know about the baby. Though I can’t exactly lead with that. Especially since she’s made it a point to keep it out of her journal.
She won’t come clean. Not even when she knows she’s pregnant, or when her personal safety is a crashing plane spinning out of control.
It scrapes my patience raw, like a razor dragged over skin.
And while I’m not blind to the hypocrisy, in this moment, I simply don't give a shit. Yes, I’m keeping my own secrets from her.
Zver’s mask, hello?
But my uncle knows she’s alive. And Enzo’s seen her.
What’s next? A press release?
I move for the door.
Dominic steps in, blocking my path.
“She’s pretty shaken up. I don’t think she needs?—”
“Spare me the lecture on what you think she needs.”
His deadpan doesn’t waiver. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need you storming in, chest pounding, threatening to murder six random men if she doesn’t vomit up every detail of her traumatic afternoon.”
“First of all—” I hold up a finger. “They’re never random.” He should know. Most of the scum on Uncle Andre’s payroll pass through his filter first.
“And second—” I lift another finger. “I know exactly what Riley needs.”
A shock collar comes to mind.
Maybe a human-sized electric fence while we’re at it.
“Where is she?”
He exhales, shoulders sinking. “Her room.”
“Then that’s where I’ll be.”
Trauma bonding with the prisoner.