Page 34 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

W ithout thinking, my palm smoothes over her belly.

She’s my sister, but this new level of intimacy steals my breath. “How far long?” I whisper.

“Four months.”

Tears blur my vision.

I want to tell her about my baby, too. But that would open a door I’m not ready to walk through.

Too many questions. Too much raw truth. Dante. And Zver. And about six trunks of emotional luggage I’m not prepared to unpack at her feet.

Not yet, anyway. I mean, geez, I just got here.

No. I’m determined to make this all about Kennedy.

She’s about to usher me into the house, but I can’t just leave Boris loitering outside.

I glance back.

He’s already lit a cigarette, thick smoke curling past his hat brim as he waves me off. “I stay here.”

Well, okay then.

Kennedy leans close, whispering in my ear. “Don’t worry. Boris was here last night with two other guards. When he’s done with his cigarette, he’ll join the others in the kitchen for brunch. They know their way around.”

“They do?” I whisper back.

It’s barely morning. How the hell was Boris already here?

Kennedy nods, a little sheepishly. “They did a full sweep of the house and grounds.” Her shoulders lift, almost apologetic. “It sort of comes with the territory.”

Her arm threads through mine as Truffles trots ahead, leading the way.

The moment we step inside, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. This isn’t just a McMansion. It’s a double quarter pounder of one.

White-and-black checkerboard floors stretch across a vast foyer, two winding staircases curling up each side like something straight out of Beauty and the Beast .

Golden light filters in through tall windows, catching the gleam of polished banisters. For all its impossible scale, it feels lived-in.

A home.

The walls are lined with artwork that flickers in my memory. Tulle skirts of pale pink and ivory, ballerinas caught mid-leap, brushstrokes blurred as if they might still be moving.

I recognize them from the posters around the dance studio.

Degas.

Only these aren’t prints.

They’re originals. The real thing.

My what-the-fuck meter is going haywire. And my eyes don’t know where to land.

Kennedy steers me through a hallway lined with French doors, all thrown open to the breeze.

Citrus and salt air drift in, carrying the courtyard with it—rows of olive trees, and sunlight glinting off stone. A long table waits beneath a gazebo, crowned with a floral-and-lemon centerpiece and set with a spread fit for a king.

Or, you know, two pregnant Mullvain women.

We both take our seats, the view spilling out onto a lush vineyard in the distance. And beyond that, the sea.

It’s private, pristine… paradise .

A woman with big brown eyes and cherub cheeks pours us each a coffee. I take it gratefully, sip with a soft mmm , and study her.

Then it clicks. “I met you at the wedding. Dory, right?”

Her smile could light up the sky. “Yes. I’m here to make sure your sister and the girls eat enough,” she teases.

I glance at the mountain of food in front of me. “You’re killing it.”

She leans closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m also usually the unlucky one stuck babysitting Enzo.” She waggles her brows with mischievous delight.

I pause mid-sip. “I can’t imagine Enzo needs much looking after.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Her grin widens. “The father-to-be is a nervous wreck.”

And just like that, I’ve landed smack in the heart of bizarro town.

Enzo—the man who carved out a reputation as one of the most ruthless mob bosses in Chicago’s history—a nervous wreck?

The woman talks about him less like a mafia butcher and more like a cranky toddler.

I absolutely love her.

For a few minutes, she fusses over us, wrapping warm pashminas around our shoulders.

Then she starts us off with plates of cornetti—flaky pastries filled with apricot jam—alongside ricotta drizzled with honey, fresh figs, thin slices of prosciutto, and enough bread toasted and brushed with olive oil to build a dam.

Oh, and two Bellinis. Virgin, thank God.

Once she’s satisfied we’ve been thoroughly pampered, Dory checks her watch. “The girls will be up soon. I’ll try to keep them out of your hair while you catch up.”

For a moment, I forget that Kennedy somehow landed smack in the middle of becoming both a wife and a mom overnight.

Dory hugs us each like we’re her own children before slipping away.

And Kennedy and I dive in, eating like ravenous raccoons and chatting up a storm like no time has passed at all.

But time has passed.

Too much of it.

And I hate that I’ve missed so much.

“I got your note,” she says.

“My note.” My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Oh my God. Ricardo Ricci actually gave it to you?”

She pulls a folded sheet from the neckline of her blouse. “I keep it with me every day. He said you looked well and happy.”

Happy. He thought I looked happy.

Hmm …

It feels like he yanked that straight out of his ass. Especially since he spent the whole time ranting about being kidnapped by Zver and demoted back to the peasant duties from whence he came.

But okay, we’ll go with that.

She sips, and continues. “And that apparently your mystery man would do anything for you. I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but he assured me you were taken care of.”

I think it over for a second, and realize it’s true. I was taken care of.

Kennedy pushes a bite of food around her plate, her voice softening as she lifts her gaze. “Are you happy?”

And for the first time in a long time, the truth slips out so fast it stuns me. “Yes.”

…Maybe.

I mean, I’m still bruised from how Zver and I left things. But I’ve got a pretty good idea how to fix that.

“Are you?” I ask in return, suddenly terrified of her answer.

Her whole face breaks into the biggest grin, wide enough to split the world in two. “So happy I feel like I’m gonna burst. Enzo and I are officially Mom and Dad to Sofie and Lili.”

“The adoption went through?”

She nods, beaming. “Enzo calls them diavoletta and angioletta. ”

Little devil and little angel. He might be Satan incarnate, but credit where credit’s due—that’s freaking adorable.

“When?”

She says it gently, but guilt claws from all sides.“A few months back.”

My sister adopted two beautiful girls—I’ve officially been an aunt this whole time—and I wasn’t fucking there.

I could drown her in a million excuses. How I was attacked on her wedding night. Kidnapped. Sold to the highest bidder. Shackled to a psychopath.

The one I might actually be falling for.

And lest I forget, the same one who recently ditched me.

Sure, for a glorious life in the north of Italy, but still.

I don’t dump that heaping pile all over our beautiful day.

I just speak the words from the only place that matters—my heart. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

She opens the locket around her neck. “You were there Riles. You just didn’t know it.”

Inside is a photo of the two of us—young and sweet, hair wild and unbrushed, candy canes clutched in sticky toddler hands.

My favorite picture. From the Christmas before Da passed away.

Da .

A flurry of sadness and rage detonates inside me, so fast, so vicious…I have to jam a spoonful of honey-drizzled ricotta in my mouth to muffle the words.

How could you marry the man who killed our Da?

I choke it down, swallowing every feeling that isn’t love for my sister.

She’s married to him.

She’s carrying his child.

And come hell or high water, that child will only ever know love.

She looks so unbelievably happy, if she was a pinata, she’d burst. Joy in every direction. Radiant in a way I’ve never seen. In a way she deserves.

And goddamnit, I will not take that from her.

Time to shift priorities. Fine. New topic. “What were the first months of pregnancy like?”

Asking for a friend.

Kennedy exhales, long and weary. “Rough. I was sick all the time, exhausted. But Enzo…” Her voice softens, warm in a way I’ve never heard before.

“He’s been incredible. Doting. Draws me baths, won’t let me lift a thing.

Tells me I’m beautiful when I look like the Bride of Frankenstein.

Takes the girls so I can nap. He even reads to me sometimes, just so I’ll fall asleep easier.

He even does all the voices for effect.”

I rest my chin on my hand, trying to picture it. “What does he read to you?”

“At the moment? Bridgerton. ”

We both collapse into giggles at the thought.

“He even rubs my feet.”

I nearly snort a virgin Bellini out my nose. “The man rubs your feet?”

“Every night.” The sparkle in her voice tells me she’s still can’t believe it herself.

I can’t wrap my head around ruthless Enzo D’Angelo trading his Glock for a cucumber foot rub. “What else does he do?” I ask, half-fascinated, half-dumbstruck.

“Last week I had a midnight craving for gelato. And not just any gelato— spumoni. Cherry, pistachio, and chocolate. Baby wanted all three. Enzo ran out in the middle of the night and got it himself.” She shakes her head, laughing. “In the rain. Not a delicate rain. A torrential downpour.”

“Himself?” I ask, because the idea of him not sending one of his countless minions is almost impossible to fathom.

“Yup. He didn’t trust anyone to get the—” she actually air quotes, “— right gelato. ”

We both laugh, and that’s when it hits me. How stupid I was to stay away.

Why did I?

“So… you love him.”

Her eyes glisten, her whole face lighting up in a way I’ve never seen before. “With all my heart.”

And I know from the way she says it, she does. And right here right now, it's enough.

Truffles hops on my lap, scratches at my belly and whimpers. “Do you think he's hungry?” I ask.

Kennedy relaxes back in her chair, eyes roaming my face like she’s seeing something new. “That’s so strange. For the first two months of my pregnancy, he did that exact same thing to me.”

Uh-oh.

I let out a small, nervous giggle, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “He probably just misses the shit out of me.”

The little dog wiggles his brows up at me, resting his head squarely on my stomach. Crap. Between those big puppy, dog eyes and the tail wagging to a slow triumphant beat, it's clear as day.

He’s totally on to me.

I shoot him a glare. Don’t you dare give me up, little guy. Or I will cut off your belly rubs.

And where the hell were you a month ago?

I sidestep the conversation before it spirals. “Do you still dance?”

“Like a walrus,” she says dryly, rolling her eyes. “You should hear the girls giggle when I try to pirouette.”

Kennedy lifts her hand, waving to someone across the courtyard. I follow her line of sight.

Enzo stands there, silent, watching. Not the mafia king who rules the underworld with an iron-knuckled fist.

But a husband.

A father-to-be.

His stance isn’t arrogant—it’s almost hesitant. His gaze locks so wholly on Kennedy, it’s like she’s the only thing tethering him to this earth.

And like he’d fuck her into next week if I weren’t here.

Kennedy catches me looking.

Her voice dips low. “There’s something I wanted to ask you. I know you have a place not too far from here, but we’d love it if you could stay. At least as long as you’re in Tuscany.”

“We?” I bite down on the worry. “You and Enzo?”

She nods. “But if you don’t want to see him, you don’t have to. He respects that you’re my sister, and if you want him gone while you’re here, he’ll leave.”

He would leave Kennedy? From everything she’s told me, the man is obsessed with her—the woman carrying his child. And yet he’s willing to walk away. Just like that.

“He would do that for you?”

She shakes her head. “No, Riles. He’ll do that for you.”

“Why?”

“Because there hasn’t been a single day I haven’t talked about you. Worried about you. Wished you were here with me. And he lost his brother this year. He would give anything to have one more moment with him. He doesn’t want me carrying the same regrets.”

The tenderness of it nearly undoes me.

It hammers home the cold, hard truth: we both lost Dante.

And Enzo doesn’t even know the most precious piece of his brother is right here.

Living inside me.

I rub Truffles’ ear, my thoughts tangling hard. I don’t know if I’ll ever have it in me to forgive Enzo D’Angelo.

We’re nowhere close. Lightyears from it, actually.

But he’s the man Kennedy loves.

The father-to-be of her child.

And if I spend the rest of my life hating him, all it will do is drive a deeper wedge between me and my sister.

So the real question is this:

As much as I hate Enzo D’Angelo…

Do I love Kennedy more?

The thought pulls me sideways—to Zver.

What did it take for him to buy me, cage me for months, and not touch me?

Well, not at first anyway.

And what the hell did it take for him to let me go?

Love?

Is it twisted that I want to believe it? That I want to believe he didn’t just love me—but the psycho killer loves me the way Enzo loves Kennedy?

With the same brutal, all-consuming fire?

God. I need help.

I glance back for Enzo one last time, but he’s already gone.