Page 35 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

ZVER

“I t’s a trap,” Dominic barks, pacing my office like a caged wolf.

“I know.”

That’s all I give him. A clean acknowledgment he’s right. Mostly to shut him up.

The silence lasts half a beat before he detonates, launching into a forty-five–minute tirade about how only a suicidal moron would walk into a setup like this.

I let him rant. Let him burn out.

While I keep loading my ammo.

There lies the great divide between Dominic and me.

He’s the strategist.

I’m the executioner.

And still, between the two of us, something’s missing.

Not muscle. Certainly not firepower. And not another contingency plan.

A confession.

For four months, the itch has gnawed at me. This constant sense that I am missing something.

I need a new angle. A brutal shift in perspective.

Enzo always said the only way to get it is to step into the steel jaws of a trap.

So I agree to this meeting.

Not in spite of the trap.

Because of it.

“Once again, you’re being reckless. Impulsive.”

“I call it effective.” I holster my gun and zip the bag—an arsenal built for a one-man apocalypse.

Dominic hefts it, testing the weight. “Enough firepower here to make a dictator nervous. You think you’ve got enough?”

Smartass.

I rip it from his grip and sling it over my shoulder. He thinks this is overkill. He hasn’t seen the one in the trunk.

“You need backup.”

“No. Extra guards will only make them suspicious.”

“Then I’m coming.” Classic Dominic—his favorite pastime is throwing himself on live grenades for me.

I pin him with a look. “No, you’re not. I need you running the team.”

“But—”

“Look. If the shit goes sideways, the further you are from me, the better. Besides, you need to look after Pom.”

He scowls, throwing up his hands. “She’s half a world away.”

“I don’t care if she’s on the goddam moon. She’s still in this universe, and she will be safe.” I jab a finger into his chest. “That’s. Your. Job.”

His stare lasts so long I’m tempted to shoot him in the foot just to get him moving.

Then his hand lands on my shoulder. “Watch your back. I don’t trust that fucker as far as I can throw him.”

I nod once. Neither do I.

One last glare, one last huff. Then he steps aside. I’m gone.

The drive across town is quiet at this hour. Streetlights blur past, empty intersections yawning wide. I pass my old bar— The Inferno .

My brother Smoke had it boarded up. Dead since my death.

And clearing the path for Zver to come to life.

Dante died so I could do this. So I could hunt down the truth about my father’s disappearance…

Or die trying.

That’s the thing about brushing shoulders with death. Nothing stays the same.

It strips away everything but bone and resolve.

With nothing left to lose.

Nothing left to fear.

If Zver vanished off the face of the earth tomorrow, no one would blink.

No one would care.

…Pom would.

Shut up.

* * *

A few blocks from the rendezvous, I pull into a hidden lot, kill the engine, and step out. The shadows keep pace as I cut through the streets, slip down an alley, and climb the fire escape in silence—until finally, I’m on the roof.

It’s one of the D’Angelos old factories. My gut twists.

Smoke’s words echo back. There are no coincidences. Only sloppy intel.

My head’s a swarm, buzzing hard enough to split my skull. But I will not leave.

If this is the hour of my reckoning—so be it.

Some debts can’t be negotiated by proxy.

Some truths have to be carved out face-to-face.

And tonight, I’ll carve them straight out of Declan Keenan’s skull.

The rooftop groans beneath my boots, tar and gravel grinding under each step as I move toward the edge. Chicago sprawls below—an eerie patchwork of stuttering neon and windows blinking in and out.

My money is on at least one of them with a sniper rifle locked on me.

Sirens wail in the distance. The wind knifes in off the lake, sharp enough to bite bone.

And finally— finally —Pom slips from my mind, burned off by the cold.

All that’s left is what I have to do.

Then I hear it—the crack.

The flick of a lighter, the hiss before the flame.

For all his drunken idiocy, I’ll give Declan this: the fucker moves like a goddamn cat.

He’s hidden in a shadow on the far ledge. I have to move a few feet in to see he’s slouched with a cigarette hanging off his lips. “I hear you want intel on Antonio D’Angelo.”

The accent’s thick, slurred with whiskey. Everything about this man is an insult to the bloodline he vowed to serve.

The glint of steel flashes in the dark. He chuckles, flipping a knife through his fingers like a coin he means to spend.

If that’s his play—intimidation—he’s drunker than I thought.

That blade looks like it came free with a Happy Meal. Which still makes it twice as long as his dick.

I crack my neck. This won’t take long.

I humor him, mostly to see if he’s got anything real. “If you know where I can find Antonio—and the money he owes me—I’m listening.”

Declan grins, glassy-eyed, legs swinging like a toddler. “You want this information. Andre D’Angelo wants this information. My, my, my… isn’t Antonio the belle of the ball?”

Interesting.

Declan’s peddled these scraps before. Sold me just enough to point at Roman and Emilio, enough to hint they were tied to my father’s disappearance.

Enough for a taste. But never the full meal.

The bastard’s still holding his cards close to his chest. Which is saying something, considering he’s got the brain cells of a mosquito.

At least he tipped his hand—Andre knows less than he let on. I file it away.

Good to know.

He drags deep on his cigarette, exhales a line of smoke too long, too deliberate.

A signal.

Declan’s stalling. Chatting me up to buy time.

Fine. Let him.

I’d rather his army come straight to me. Better to see exactly who I’m dealing with.

Plus it gives me time to stalk the perimeter. One corner at a time.

“So tell me,” he calls out, lips curling, “what’s it worth to you?”

I chuckle, kicking up a few pebbles under my feet. “If it comes through, you can almost name your fucking price.”

Declan drops his cigarette and whistles.

Three men peel out of the shadows, circling with whatever junk they could scrape together.

A tire iron.

A baseball bat.

And numbnuts with the rusted chain—swinging it like we all just walked off the set of a bad prison flick.

I shake my head. Where the hell does he find them?

The first swing comes wild. A tire iron cutting air. I duck, drive my fist into his throat. He wheezes once before he folds.

The big guy lumbers in with the bat. I’m not sure who taught him to fight—or play baseball—but it helps if you actually swing. He doesn’t. I grab his arm. One twist, and bone cracks, the bat clatters to the tar.

I knee him in the head for good measure. He’s out cold.

Chain-boy gets brave, whirling steel like he’s helicoptering a T-shirt. Who has the patience for this? I rip it from his grip, wrap it once around his throat, and drag him down until a telltale snap hits the air.

Two minutes. That’s all it takes.

The rooftop’s mine.

They’re coughing, staggering, bleeding. The two still breathing, anyway. I stand over them, chain dangling from my fist.

Then—

Crack .

I freeze.

Declan, the drunk bastard, finally ditched the toy blade. A revolver gleams in his hand, grin splitting wide.

“Playtime’s over,” he drawls, voice thick with smoke and whiskey. “Thanks for the offer, but I already named my price. With Andre. Ten million for your unmasked head on a stake, Zver.”