Page 51 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

I drop hard, knees cracking stone, tears blurring everything as I pull his head into my lap. “Dominic?”

For one endless second, he’s dead weight in my arms.

God. No.

Then he shifts, a ragged groan tearing free, and I drag in a breath so shaky it burns, ash scraping down my throat.

“What happened? Where’s Zver?”

His voice grates out of him. “They stormed the place. Looking for information. Valuables. Anything.”

My head reels, spinning. “How did they even know where he lived?”

His gaze meets mine, hollow, stripped bare. “It’s not a secret. But they would never attack unless?—”

“Unless what?”

His answer comes like a blade, cutting deep.

“Unless they already have him.”

My lungs seize. Ice floods my veins.

No. No, no, no.

He winces, a dark bloom spreading across his shirt.

“You’re bleeding. We need to get help.”

“No.” His hand clamps mine, iron-strong despite the tremor in his body. He shoves a key into my palm. “The locked box… In Zver’s room…”

“Zver’s room?” I blink at him, stunned. “I don’t even know where that is. We don't need a box. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“They will help.” His breath shudders, every word gasping. “End of the East Wing. The box. There’s a phone in it. Turn it on. Press one.”

His eyes glaze, words slurring. Then they roll back as more blood seeps through the fabric.

Has he been shot?

“Shit.”

I tear down the East Wing, heart bucking like wild horses trying to escape.

Boris is on my heels. “Let me go first.”

For once, I don’t argue.

Gun raised, he eases the door open and slips inside—silent, precise, a shadow with a trigger.

A beat later: “Clear.”

The second he says that, I rush in.

The room is massive. And the box is dead center on an enormous mantle, flanked by framed photos I can’t look at. Not now.

I flip it open.

It’s not sleek. Not smart. A fossil. An old flip phone, the kind you only see in pawn shops and bad mob flicks.

My hands shake as I snap it open and hit the first contact.

The voice that answers isn’t a voice at all. It’s garbled, metallic, chewed up by a machine and spit back out.

“Give us the situation,” the voice commands. Flat. Mechanical.

“I—I need help. Dominic gave me this phone. He said if there was an emergency, to call. We need help. Zver—he’s in trouble.”

The instant I say that I regret it. What if these are enemies of Zver?

“Leave this phone on. Someone will be there shortly. Are you safe there?”

A laugh bursts out of me, because by this point, I’m hysterical. “I used to think so. But considering the place just got fucking stormed, I’m gonna guess not.”

Silence. Then: “Hold one minute.”

I swear to God, if they put on elevator music?—

Boris looms close, voice low. “I need to check the perimeter. Lock the door behind me. Don’t open for anyone but me.” He raps his knuckles against the frame. “This room feels reinforced. So listen for my voice—let no one else in.”

Petrified, I nod.

He slips out, and I throw the lock home behind him.

Through the door, muffled: “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The line in my hand clicks. The pixelated voice returns.

“We’re en route. Try to find a weapon.”

Weapon. Right.

I yank open the first drawer—sawed-off shotgun.

Second drawer—an arsenal. Pistols, rifles, clips of ammo stacked like candy. Enough to start a war.

“Yeah,” I whisper, fingers trembling as I slam it shut. “I think I’ll be fine.” I hope.

“Are you in any danger at the moment?” the garbled voice asks.

My throat locks as pain rips across my stomach.

I glance down and freeze.

Fresh blood trails down my leg. Not the staged stuff. Not what I smeared there.

The real thing.

Fear claws through my chest. A sob rips out before I can choke it back. “I’m pregnant. I’m cramping. And—” Tears blur my vision as my voice cracks. “There’s blood.”

The voice on the line shifts. The distortion falls away, replaced by a man’s voice—steady, soft, and assured.

I don’t recognize him. Or maybe I should. There’s a flicker of something familiar, but I can’t place it.

And the way he speaks… it’s as if he knows me.

“You’re going to be fine. I’ll stay on the line with you. Stay calm. Okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, sniffling.

His voice is tender in a way I didn’t expect. Warm. Older, maybe. There’s something in his tone that feels… brotherly. Like he actually cares.

“What’s your name?”

I’m too wrung out, too raw to come up with a lie. “Riley. What’s yours?”

I think he’s about to answer when pain claws through me. I double over, gasping. “ Ahh ?—”

Instead of answering, he steadies me. “Deep breath in. Long breath out.” I do as he says. “Can you get more comfortable? A bed, maybe?”

“Yes.”

I crawl into the center of Zver’s bed, curl around his pillow, swallowed up by the crisp, masculine scent of him.

A broken laugh slips out. Once, I’d thought about crawling into his bed just to trick him—make him believe this baby was his.

My hand drifts to my belly, pressing soft as tears streak down my cheeks. My throat knots, choking on the truth that slices through me like glass.

This baby is Zver’s—it’s a bond beyond blood.

“Tell me something you see,” the man prompts, voice gentle. A distraction. A lifeline. He’s trying to pull me out of the fear clawing deeper with every cramp.

I sniff hard, wipe my eyes, and glance around the room.

A photo.

I lean closer to the bedside table, confusion hitting like a slap. What the ? —

It’s a framed picture of Dante. Of his entire family. The exact same one Enzo has.

Why does Zver have this?

Does he know? That I loved Dante?

My chest caves, grief and panic tangling into one jagged knot. I lost Dante. I can’t lose Zver too.

Three bangs slam against the door.

My heart ignites—a live grenade in my chest.

“Someone’s here,” I whisper.

Static. Then the voice: “I can’t hear you. Speak a little louder.”

I try to swallow the sand scraping down my throat. “I can’t.”

I lunge for the nearest drawer, yank it open, and my fingers clamp around cold steel. A gun.

When the door handle rattles, I swing the barrel toward it, hands shaking, breath locked in my chest.

Three more knocks.

Still no words. It’s not Boris.

The handle jerks. My grip tightens.

I’ve never fired a gun before.

But the second the door blasts open, my body is on autopilot.

My eyes slam shut and I squeeze.

Hard.