Page 36 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

“H e did what?”

Enzo’s roar rattles the walls before I even touch the door. Subtlety isn’t usually his strongest suit. He’s notorious as more the cobra type, voice dropping soft and deadly before the strike.

But right now?

This is a Richter-scale level of rage Verona probably felt. My hand freezes, curled around the handle.

Kennedy assured me that if I wanted a private word with him, this was the best time.

There’s no time like the present , Dory added as she cleared our plates.

Deep breath. Slow exhale. Turn the knob already, Riley .

I do.

And in hindsight, knocking might’ve been the smarter play, considering what I walk into.

Not Enzo’s office.

His bedroom.

His and my sister’s bedroom.

I swear to God, I’m going to kill Kennedy. I came here for a private, serious word with her husband, and she sends me straight into baby-making central.

What the hell was she thinking?

A four-poster bed. French doors spilling sunlight over miles of Italian countryside. And in the center—Enzo. A furious storm of rage framed against perfection.

Could there be a better snapshot of his marriage to Kennedy?

And because fate hates me, yup, he’s in a bathrobe. Note to self: bleach retinas ASAP.

He’s tearing into the air, swearing in a seamless blur of Italian and English, every word sharp enough to flay skin.

At least he had the sense to double-knot the robe.

“So he blew up one of my factories,” Enzo snarls like he’s scolding a two year old. Then, louder: “ Again? I don’t know which is getting older—him doing it, or you telling me after the fact.”

“Yes, sir. Understood, sir. It won’t happen again,” the voice on the other end stammers, stiff and almost militant.

Not exactly convincing. I roll my eyes.

Enzo rolls his too.

Enzo drags a hand through his thick hair, hard enough I’m shocked he doesn’t yank half of it out. “If that fucker takes down one more asset, I’ll rip his beating heart out, skewer it, and feed it to him like a goddamn s’more.”

Well, somebody’s demon wings are ruffled. Hmm . I wonder who he’s talking about.

He sneers into the phone. “That Russian is about to meet his destiny.”

Oh. My. God. He couldn’t mean?—

“You have twenty-four hours,” Enzo barks. “And trust me, you don’t want to know what happens if you fail.”

“Yes, sir.”

Enzo ends the call with a snap of his fingers, then hurls the phone across the room. It smashes against the wall, splintering into shards.

My stomach knots before my brain catches up.

There’s only one Russian who can set him off like this.

My Russian.

Zver.

And maybe it’s evil, but I have to bite back a smile.

My pulse skips, then races. But then Enzo steps out from around the bed, and my heart thuds to the floor.

That's when I realize he's been packing his suitcase.

He’s leaving.

Because of me.

No. No, no, no. He can’t go.

Do I hate him? Obviously.

But Kennedy is crazy about him, and I’m not about to screw this up for her.

He yanks the zipper closed, fury still radiating off him, then drops onto the bed beside the suitcase. Shoulders slumped. Defeated.

But it doesn’t last.

His head snaps up, ears perked like a predator catching the frantic breath of a ground squirrel. “If you’re going to eavesdrop, you might as well make yourself at home.”

I step in, chin up. “It’s not eavesdropping if you can hear it in Calcutta.”

When his eyes lift to mine, he studies me the way I study him—measuring, calculating, sizing up exactly who we’re up against.

In his eyes? I’m nothing but a nineteen-year-old brat interfering in his marriage. Shoving my nose where it doesn’t belong.

And I still see the cutthroat mob boss, the man who swats lives away like flies over his rigatoni. But the hard lines are blurred now, the edges worn.

It’s almost like he’s… human.

“You don’t have to go,” I blurt out. “You’re Kennedy’s husband. And the father-to-be of my niece or nephew.” My fingers twist together, restless. “I’m not throwing you out of your own home.”

He cocks his head, mouth smoothing to a tight line. “How benevolent of you.” He draws in a deep breath. “You could, you know. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“Now who’s being benevolent, big bad mob boss?”

He smirks.

I cross my arms and lean against the French doors, letting the breeze cool the heat I usually reserve for him. “It's obvious that you love Kennedy. And Kennedy loves you. And I love her.”

He nods, and silence wraps around us. A light layer of… peace. For Kennedy’s sake.

His chin jerks toward the wall.

My gaze follows to a photo. It looks like a family gathering, and I recognize Dante in the center, flanked by his twin brother Dillon. All of them innocent and impossibly young. “I’d do anything for my brothers. Or my sister.”

“I believe you,” I whisper.

He shifts, hands buried in the pockets of his robe, eyes locked on that photo. He’s probably stared it down a million times. “You’re not my sister-in-law, Riley.”

Ouch. That stings.

He goes on. “The day I married Kennedy, you became my sister. Believe it or not, I would do anything for you, as I would do anything for her. Your status in my life comes with certain… privileges.”

“Privileges?” I snort. “What the hell does that even mean? I don't exactly need anyone taken out if that's what you're saying.”

He shrugs. “It’s an open invitation.” A small smile creeps up his cheek. “You’re a D’Angelo now. Ours to protect. Say the word, and if you need something—anything—if it’s within my power, it’s yours.”

“And if what I want is you dead?” I shoot back, teasing.

“You’ll have to go through your sister first.” His grin sharpens. “She’s very attached to certain parts of me.”

I openly gag, loud and dramatic.

We both laugh. And it feels… weirdly good.

I’m starting to understand how much she means to him, and I’m tired of hating him. Tired of the invisible wedge it’s driven between me and Kennedy.

I push off the doorframe, and step closer. “Let me be clear, Enzo. If you ever hurt her—” my voice drops, sharp and lethal, “—I’ll kill you.”

His gaze locks on mine. Steady. Unflinching. “If I ever hurt her, I’ll let you.”

It knocks the wind out of me for half a second. Because I can tell…he means it.

“I made a vow to Kennedy,” he says, voice low but steady. “That I’d protect you the same way I protect my own sister. And I will.” He extends his hand. “Truce?”

For a flicker of a second, I swear I see it—hope. Not just for Kennedy. For him. For me. For all of us.

I eye his hand warily. “Did you wash that?”

“I did. Twice.”

I shake my head but take it, a warning sharp in my grip. “This is a baby step, not a moonwalk. We’re not braiding hair and binge-watching Bridgerton .”

For the briefest second, his mouth almost curves. “Way to crush my hope. You really are Kennedy’s sister.”

He lets go, and silence stretches between us. Barely a heartbeat.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “So, how far along are you?”

The question slams into me like a sucker punch.

I swat his arm, hissing, “Are you spying on my vagina now? How the hell do you even know I’m pregnant?”

My hand drifts to my stomach, instinctive. Protective.

Should I tell him? Should I say this child is Dante’s—that the most precious piece of his brother is growing inside me?

No. Not yet.

I’ve already read you’re not supposed to tell anyone in the first three months. Because what if?—

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Nothing’s going to happen.

Still, I’m not blurting it out to the universe. And Enzo and I only just called a truce. I am not trusting him with my sweetest, darkest secret.

My pulse stutters. “How—how could you possibly know? The last time you saw me, I wasn’t?—”

“You’re a little more…” He falters, searching for a word, then gives up. “Oh, fuck it. Your bra size has doubled. At least. Just like Kennedy’s did.”

“What?” My gaze drops to my chest because—double? Really?

He only shrugs, clinical and cool. “I also own a prego-sniffing dog.”

“A prego-sniffing dog? How is that even a thing?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. But it is.”

I swallow hard as the truth claws up my throat, desperate to get out. God, I’ve been dying to tell someone—anyone. But not him. Not before Kennedy. Even if he sees it all over my face.

Or my boobs.

I point a stern finger at his smug face. “You can’t say a word. Not until I tell Kennedy myself.”

He holds his fingers high in salute. “Scout’s honor.”

“You just did the Girl Scouts.”

“Sofia and Lily are both Scouts. As a bonafide girl dad, I’m honorary. ”

He pushes off the dresser, folding his arms as his voice goes steady, almost protective. “Your secret’s safe with me. But you’re going to need to tell Kennedy soon. Because those puppies—” he motions to my chest “—aren’t getting any smaller.”

Fuck. He’s right.

“Who’s the father?” His tone is casual. Too casual.

I narrow my eyes. “The father? Oh, yes. His name is none of your fucking business. That’s who the father is.”

“I’m serious, Riley.”

“So am I.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to crush a migraine.

“Remember when I told you you’re part of this family now?

” His gaze sharpens, hard as steel. “That doesn’t just come with privileges.

It comes with risks. If you want my protection, I need to know who the father is. Even if he doesn’t know himself yet.”

My lips locks shut.

“You have to trust me.”

“I am so sick of men telling me that I have to trust them.” My voice slices like glass. “Read my lips: no.”

His jaw ticks. “If you don’t, you’re not just jeopardizing your life, but the life of your unborn child.” He shakes his head, a low grumble under the words. “That call you overheard? Just one of my many admirers. There are more factions gunning for the D’Angelos than I can count.”

“Really? And here I thought you could at least get to twenty. Fingers and toes and all.”

“Twenty-one if you count all my appendages.”

“ Eww .”

His glare doesn’t crack. “I mean it. It’s either we kill them, or they kill us.”

“Stop trying to scare me.”

“I’m sorry, would you rather I break out into The Circle of Life number? Mafia edition? This isn't a fairytale. Give me a name.”

And damn it, I hate that he’s right. Between the reinforced walls and the small army stationed outside, I know he isn’t just being nosy.

The D’Angelos have enemies everywhere.

Almost as many as?—

Zver .

Shit .

Enzo said it himself. Either he kills Zver, or Zver kills him.

And here’s the worst part: I don’t know why, but I want to shield that psychotic Russian. I feel…

Protective.

Not that he needs protecting. Hell, he’s made it painfully clear he doesn’t need anything from me.

But if Enzo kills Zver?

The thought rips through me, sharp and merciless, leaving my chest aching like an open wound. I don’t think I’d survive it.

And if Zver kills Enzo, Kennedy would never forgive me.

I swallow hard. What to do, what to do…

So I do something really, really stupid.

It’s on the tip of my tongue. That his brother Dante is the father of this baby.

But what comes out instead?

“The father? It’s… Zver.”

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.