Page 38 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

“W hat?”

Enzo’s voice spikes high enough to summon stray dogs from here to the Vatican. And that vein in his forehead I never noticed before? It’s one twitch away from exploding.

I huff out a breath and pop a grape into my mouth because apparently, every room in this house doubles as a buffet. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you just heard me say Zver is the father of my unborn child and your brain subbed in Voldemort .”

His brows slash together. “Who?”

I roll my eyes. “Never mind.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just keeps staring at me like he’s auditioning for a horror flick—silent, unblinking, the air vibrating with the near-imperceptible growl clawing up his throat.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Staring like my child’s about to Alien its way out of my stomach. And wipe that judgy look off your face while you’re at it.”

He cuts a glance at the mirror, like catching his own reflection proves me right. A flicker of surprise crosses his face before he schools it flat. “I’m not judging.”

“You sound judgy.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Pretty sure you do.”

His jaw ticks, muscles coiling tight as he drags a hand down his face. The muttered Italian slips out low and fast—half rosary, half profanity, all directed at me.

And because we’re now family and all, he has no idea how to handle me.

He studies me for a beat before cutting through the bullshit. “Riley, I’m a lot of things. Annoyed? Always. Murderous? Every second of every day. Two seconds from going full MMA on that Russian motherfucker? You bet your ass.” He leans closer. “But judgy? Not on your life.”

He straightens his robe the way a Roman soldier might adjust his armor, every movement precise as I see the wheels turning in his head.

Then he steers me onto the balcony, the threat in his eyes cooling until it’s almost gone.

Almost because with Enzo, it’s never gone. Just chained up, like a werewolf waiting for the next full moon.

In flawless Italian form, he pulls out a chair with old-world grace. I have a feeling it’s less mob king, and more man who refuses to let the storm beneath his skin ever crack the surface.

Manners first. Control always.

Then he brings over the bowl of ripe fruit and a carafe of dark coffee, setting them on the café table. With the way he's eyeing me, these are less like offerings and more of his silent command to eat.

My stomach twists. I could inhale the whole spread like some Japanese hotdog-eating champion, but I’m wound too tight.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look at me. Just sets another plate down under my nose.

The rich scent of warm chocolate croissants curls through the air, sweet as honey, leaving me hogtied and at the mercy of the tiny human currently puppet-mastering me from inside the womb.

I give up.

My hand zeroes in on the biggest one, and I start chomping like I didn’t already demolish a full breakfast smorgasbord thirty minutes ago.

Mmm . Baby loves.

Next, Enzo pours the coffee, fixing it with unnerving precision. Five sugars. Two splashes of cream. And—because apparently he’s a part-time magician—a cinnamon stick he must’ve pulled straight out of his ass.

Exactly the way I like it. Minus the ass part.

Kennedy refers to my special brew as dark roast sugar coma.

I call it heaven.

I dunk a croissant in and freeze mid-bite. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“Because until yesterday, I thought I knew everything about you. Except where you were or who you were with.” His tone dips, heavy. “Both mysteries solved.”

“Yes. Congratulations. Feel free to go back to hunting chupacabras.”

He sits beside me, and silence settles over us. Except, of course, for my obnoxiously loud chewing and his laser-focused stare.

Finally, before the tension snaps his jaw in two, he speaks. “Are you sure? The child is Zver’s.”

I hum out a weak, croissant-muffled, “Mm-hmm.”

Enzo’s not exactly the type you can bluff. The man probably sniffs out lies the way bloodhounds sniff contraband.

Hopefully he’s too distracted by me Cookie-Monstering this croissant down to crumbs.

He broaches the next question cautiously. “And are you happy about that? Or do you want him dead?” His brows tick up, almost hopeful. “Please let it be the latter.”

I shrug a shoulder. “Haven’t told him yet.” True statement.

Enzo rubs a hand over the scruff lining his jaw, hard enough to scrape sparks. “And when exactly do you plan to tell him?”

I point the last bite of croissant at his nose. “Not that it’s any of your business, but soon.”

“How soon?”

Question of the hour.

Considering I just pulled this shit out of thin air, I probably need to let Zver know before somebody else decides to do the honors for me.

I could call him, sure.

But hey, remember how we’ve never actually had baby-making sex? Surprise—you’re going to be a dad! feels like a conversation best had in person.

Especially since I need to explain to him that I'm doing it to save his stupid life. Even if he doesn't want me in it.

Enzo clears his throat. Obviously still waiting.

I sigh and lick the last trace of chocolate off my thumb. “Depends. Do these I’m a D’Angelo now privileges come with a fully fueled jet?”

He drums his fingers on the table before finally answering. “I guess it does.”