Page 33 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

F rom the airport, we step off the plane into a wall of humid Italian air. Olive oil and espresso ride the breeze, cut with the bite of jet diesel and the faintest trace of the sea.

Beyond the pavement, hills roll out in green and gold, terracotta roofs glowing in the first light of morning.

“What time is it?”

Sabine checks her watch. “Dawn. Perfect timing.”

“I guess it would be perfect timing if I’d actually slept on the plane.”

Her lips twitch. “Welcome to Italy. Espresso solves everything.”

A black car waits at the curb, sleek and gleaming. The driver tips his hat as he swings open the back door.

Then he strides up and clasps my hand in a grip that could crack bone if he used even a fraction of his Marvel-level strength. Thankfully, he doesn’t.

“Welcome to Italy, Miss Zapretnaya. I’m Boris. One of your drivers. And your primary guard.”

The Russian accent isn’t lost on me. Neither is the fact he looks like he eats refrigerators for breakfast.

I flick a glance at Sabine. “My primary guard?”

“You’ll get used to it,” she assures me. “It was of utmost importance to Zver that you were well protected.” She checks her watch. “You have an appointment shortly.”

“An appointment?” My nose wrinkles. “What kind of appointment could I possibly have?”

“You’ll see.”

Her tone is flat, stripped of inflection, and it leaves me volleying between two possibilities: anticipation or dread.

Exhaustion steamrolls both. A yawn sneaks out before I can stop it.

“Please tell me this appointment comes with copious amounts of caffeine.”

“Guaranteed.”

A second van idles nearby. Two men help Elena inside, her frail frame nearly folding beneath their hands. She slept the entire flight, but now she looks even weaker, her steps faltering like her body’s forgetting how to move.

For a split second, something nags at me. When I saw her shuffle to the bathroom earlier, she was limping on her left leg. Now it’s her right.

My chest squeezes for her. I hope to hell she’s going to be okay.

The door slides shut around her, sealing her away from me.

Sabine notices my frown. “She’ll be alright,” she assures me.

And I know that, because of Zver, she has the best chance of it now.

* * *

Boris drives us out of the airport and into the countryside. The car glides down narrow roads that seem stolen from a postcard.

The second we leave behind all traces of a city, the air shifts. Rows of cypress trees rise like sentinels, vineyards roll endlessly over the hills, and terracotta farmhouses are peppered with goats and sheep.

It’s the kind of view that I’ve dreamed of all my life. I'm pretty sure Boris is tired of me swooning at every turn.

“So… where are we going?” I finally ask, my forehead pressed against the glass.

“You’ll see,” Boris rumbles, eyes never leaving the road.

I give him a sideways glance. “Do you know, Zver?” I probably shouldn't ask that, but I am super nosy.

He only shrugs.

As in, that’s the end of the conversation, Riley.

Ha . Right. Like I’m letting it go there. He has no idea who he’s up against. Mark my words, if he’s going to be my regular driver, I will wear him down.

“Blink twice if you know him.”

Hmm. I study him hard in the rearview mirror, but he’s hiding behind glasses so dark they might as well be blackout curtains.

“Was that a blink?”

Nothing. Not even a twitch. Yep, the guy’s a total vault—sealed, padlocked, and buried six feet under.

I flop back against the leather seat, drumming my nails on the armrest. Argh. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“The suspense is killing me, you know,” I press.

“I know.” And then it happens. The smallest flicker of a smile. “My boss told me it would.”

“Ah ha!” Point a finger at him. “You do know him.”

“Yes. And it's our little secret.” He pulls down his glasses and winks.

And I know that big, bad Boris and I are going to get along just fine.

The car winds higher, past olive groves and stone walls draped in ivy, until the horizon opens onto an estate so sprawling it looks painted.

Rustic walls, gardens wrapped in bursts of purple bougainvillea, and a stream tumbling down the hillside like it was placed there for dramatic effect.

“Whoa.” I lean forward against the glass. “Is this where I’m staying?”

“Who’s to say,” Boris replies simply, pulling up the drive.

“You, Boris. You’re to say.” I deadpan.

“It isn’t up to me, Ms. Zapretnaya. It’s up to you.”

A choice.

Zver’s giving me a choice. He always gives me a choice.

Like, what? Does he have six more estates waiting on standby for me to pick from?

Because that’s insane.

Then again, if anyone’s the kingpin of insane, it’s my guy.

…Did I just say my guy ?

Zver is not my guy.

Is he?

I look up at the towering estate.

As much as I’d love to throw myself into the Italian lap o’ luxury—two sprawling stories, at least twenty rooms, Juliet balconies practically begging me to sip cappuccinos on them—it scratches a deep itch under my skin.

We roll to a stop beside a fountain—because, yeah, it’s one of those places—and I curl my hand around the door handle.

Instantly, Boris frowns. “You touch, you die.”

Okay. I officially love this guy.

He slips out of the car, pops on his hat, and swings my door open.

Two wood-carved double doors open just a crack, and for half a second, my whole body braces.

Something shoots out—white, fast, low, and …furry?

A warm, wriggling ball of fluff barrels into my arms, tongue wet and frantic against my cheek.

“Truffles?”

The dog I rescued and handed to Kennedy as a birthday gift. Okay, gift is generous. More like shoved him into her arms and gave her zero choice in the matter.

Because love doesn’t always slip neatly into place. Sometimes you’ve got to jam it in and hold tight with both hands.

My laugh fractures into a sob as I clutch him tight, burying my face in his fur. He smells like grass and sunshine.

And dog.

Bleh.

God, the sweetest mutt in the universe is in serious need of a bath.

Truffles licks away my tears like we are long lost friends and he’s been waiting forever for this moment.

“God, I missed you,” I blubber into his fur.

“Not as much as I missed you.”

I freeze. My head jerks up.

And there she is.

Kennedy .

Her face is so familiar it hurts. But different, too—softer, radiant, glowing in a way that doesn’t match the last memory I have of her.

My chest caves, the air punched right out of me.

I blink through tears. Zver gave me my sister back.

We collide, arms wrapping around each other, clinging so hard I swear I’ll never let go.

I don’t know how long we stand there—seconds, minutes, maybe a year. And when we finally pull apart, I can’t stop staring at her face.

There’s so much I want to tell her, I don’t even know where to start.

Then my gaze drops.

To the healthy swell of her belly.

And in this beautiful, heart-wrecking moment, all I manage to say is?—

“Holy fucking shit.”