Page 53 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

W hen I come to, voices are circling all around.

“From what I can tell, she’s about twelve weeks. Maybe fourteen. We need to be careful with the baby.”

The baby.

You mean my baby.

My eyes flicker open.

Zver’s room swims into focus—except it’s different. An IV drip is beside me, medical supplies scattered across the dresser, and a man with a stethoscope leans over me.

I try to lift my head. Dizziness throws me like a tsunami. I slump back, weak as the ceiling spins all around.

“Easy,” his voice murmurs as he catches my wrist. “Just take your time.”

My eyes slit open, groggy, to find his fingers pressed against my pulse.

His voice is steady, carved from stone. “Are you in any pain?”

So much pain I can’t figure out if there’s a single part of me that isn’t screaming after my little swan dive from two stories up. “I’m fine.” I think.

Before I can ask, another voice cuts in from across the room.

“Thank fuck. We thought we lost you.”

My gaze jerks toward it, cutting through the haze?—

My heart lunges to my throat.

It’s Dante’s face.

But now, in the harsh light of a room with the curtains pulled wide, I see it.

This isn’t Dante.

He’s so much softer around the eyes.

And not nearly as sharp around the edges—though sharp enough to make my skin prickle.

“Dillon?” My voice is barely a whisper. Dante’s twin.

A corner of his mouth curves. “You remember.”

I glance back at the man who’d just checked my wrist. It’s starting to click.

I know him, too. Kennedy’s wedding. Dante’s oldest brother.

Shit, what was his name?

“Steam?”

Dillon chokes back a laugh, ice-blue eyes narrowing at me. “Smoke.”

“Right. Smoke. Sorry.”

He pulls a pen light from his pocket. “I’m going to do a quick exam, all right?”

I nod. My voice scrapes like gravel. “You’re a doctor?”

“Part-time doctor, part-time mob warlord.” He shrugs like that belongs on his LinkedIn. “You know how it goes.”

I don’t. But sure.

He checks me, head to toe, efficient and thorough. Then he presses something into my hand.

A glossy rectangle.

An ultrasound.

My fingers tremble as I lift it closer, light catching the grainy shape inside. My breath stutters.

“When did you take this?”

“While you were out. It’s not the best quality image, but enough for an all-clear. She’s tough like her mom.”

“She?”

“Don’t quote me on that. It’s still early. But all signs point to yes. We’ll know for sure in a month.”

Tears blur as the edges of the picture curl under my grip. I stare in disbelief, terrified it’ll vanish if I blink too long.

“So, she’s … okay?”

My voice cracks on she . Because it isn’t a what anymore. She’s here. She’s real. And for someone so impossibly tiny, I know she’s about to light up my entire world.

The dark, hulking six-foot-four demigod leans over me, rough hands checking vitals, prodding at my side. “You’re both fine.”

“How big is she?”

“About the size of a lime.”

“Or Dominic’s brain,” Dillon pipes up from somewhere in the room.

Oh my God. My head jerks toward him. “Dominic? He was shot. Is he all right?”

Smoke shifts my pillow so I can get more comfortable. “He’ll live,” he mutters, more irritated than concerned.

I huff, grinning. “You’ve definitely got the bedside manners of a doctor.”

He smirks back. “And you’ve got the balls of a Mullvain.”

My blood stills. He knows who I am.

I push myself upright, slower this time. Smoke presses a bottle of water into my hand, steady and silent.

“You need to take it easy. You’ve lost some blood. We’re making arrangements to get your type and get you out of here.”

My blood type.

I don’t even know my own blood type. Oh, crap. Shouldn’t a mom know that?

I will. I’ll know mine, and the baby’s too. I vow to know everything about her. From her favorite bedtime story to the lullaby that actually knocks her out. And don’t get me started on knowing where she is every second of her life.

Hmm . Maybe Zver can fashion a tracker bracelet in baby size.

I sip, the water cold against my raw throat, and glance around.

“Where’s Boris?”

“Talking with our team.”

A team. They have an actual team.

“You have to help Zver. He’s my—” I stumble, weighing which lie might wedge into their good graces. Fuck it . “He’s the father of my child.”

The two of them exchange a look. A sideways glance heavy enough to flatten me. The verdict’s clear. It’s a no.

My voice snaps sharper this time, scraping past the burn in my throat. I jab a finger between them.

“Your brother is married to my sister. That makes us family. In-laws. For Christ’s sake, help the father of my child.”

They don’t exactly look convinced.

I set the glass down and lace my fingers tight. If they won’t help, I’ll get a D’Angelo who will. “Where is Enzo? I need to talk to him.”

Smoke’s growl rumbles low, the lines on his face digging so deep he looks decades older. “Enzo is indisposed.”

“Indisposed?” I snap. “The only people I’ve ever heard called indisposed are the ones chained to the toilet with chronic diarrhea.”

His stare doesn’t flinch. “We’re doing what we can.”

That’s it. That’s all he gives me.

I shut my mouth. They’ve got me strapped to medical equipment, an IV in my arm. Whatever else they’re doing, it’s clear—they’re keeping me and the baby alive.

Maybe don’t piss them off, Riley. Not yet.

“I don’t understand how you’re here.” My voice still cracks. “You answered the phone… the one Dominic told me to use.”

Dillon flips the phone in his hand, his expression unreadable.

“That’s our emergency line.” A pause, as if he’s stretching for a puzzle piece just out of reach.

“Dominic must’ve taken it after Dante died…

but why give it to Zver?” He snaps it open, and studies it again.

“We were so sure the car bomb took them both.”

The words drop one by one, as more puzzle pieces lock into place.

“Dominic was with Dante when he died?”

Dillon’s only answer is a single nod.

My mind stutters. If that’s true, then why hasn’t Dominic ever said a word about it?

“Can I talk to Dominic?”

His gaze flicks to the mantle, to the photo he hasn’t looked away from since I walked in. “Why does Zver have that?”

“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve even been in this room.”

Smoke’s eyes narrow. “If we’re gonna work together, you need to tell us the truth.”

My blood spikes. “I am telling you. I don’t know.”

His mouth hardens to a line, his gaze drifting across the room until it hooks on the coat of arms. He steps closer, studying it. “What’s that?”

“Zver’s coat of arms. I think. There are several throughout the house.” Smoke frowns, studying it. “That’s not like any crest I’ve ever seen. My wife’s Bratva. I had to memorize every bloodline just to figure out who I was a fifth cousin to.”

He stares harder, like something about it is fundamentally wrong. Then, like a maniac, he snaps, and starts ripping through drawers.

At first rifling fast, but not fast enough. He flips them upside down, tossing contents across the floor in a storm of socks and underwear, toiletries and papers.

“Hey!” I jab a furious finger at him. “This is not your place. Stop it!”

He doesn’t so much as flinch. Doesn’t acknowledge I’m even here.

Another drawer slams to the floor, contents scattering. A case of contact lenses bounces onto the bed beside me. Black .

Zver wears black contact lenses?

Why?

Then he drags a trunk out of the closet and tears it open.

Papers and sketches scatter across the floor.

Skulls. Roses. The same designs inked into his forearm. Perfect replicas. Every last one.

Fake. Fucking. Tattoos.

My stomach plummets. The mask, I understood. He’s made a lot of enemies and he has to hide his face. With an identity to shield.

It’s all very Marvel.

But this?

Not everyone sees his tattoo. Not everyone gets close enough to trace it with their eyes, brush it with their hands.

That ink isn’t for the world.

It was for me.

And it’s a goddamn lie.

He’s not just hiding from them.

He’s hiding from me.

Who the hell is he?

He’s the man who vowed to protect you and your baby, Riley.

But… what if none of it was real?

Smoke’s hands still on a thick stack of blueprints buried at the bottom. His jaw hardens to stone.

“Motherfucker.” He spins on Dillon, crushing the papers in his fist.

“Well, this explains how Zver knew exactly which buildings to blow up.”

My stomach twists.

“We have to find Zver. Now,” Smoke barks.

Okay, yes. I wanted them to find Zver.

But to help him. Not to get all angry-mob on his ass. Torches and pitchforks optional.

Dillon shakes his head. “The men are already on it.” He checks his phone, jaw tightening. “Shit. I don’t know where he is now, but I know where he’ll be in two hours.”

Smoke plants his hands on his hips, glaring. “And how the hell do you know that?”

“He’s being auctioned off.”

My stomach lurches. “They’re auctioning… Zver?” Tears well as I shake my head. “That… makes no sense. Why? Who’s doing this?”

His gaze cuts sharp. “Our uncle. Andre D’Angelo. With the Irish syndicate backing him.”

More tears shed, and I am begging. “You have to help him. Please.”

“No.” Smoke’s growl is unyielding. “We have to help you .”

My fingers rip at the IV before I even know what I’m doing. I’m shredding my own skin just to tear it out, just to get free, just to stand.

Dillon’s weight slams me back down, iron hands pinning me as Smoke resets the line and twists the valve.

I thrash, wild, feral—kicking, clawing—but my body slows down.

I try to scream, to force the words out, but nothing comes. My lips move. My throat strains. My voice doesn’t.

Why isn’t my mouth working?

My eyelids drag, iron weights pulling them shut.

“She’ll be out for an hour at least. Enough for the transport. This will calm her down.”

Sedation.

He’s sedating me.

He can’t do that. This can't be good for a pregnant woman or her child.

He can’t?—

No.

My vision tilts. Darkness creeps in, thick and suffocating.

No, no, no ? —