Page 57 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

DANTE

P ain.

Excruciating, mind-blowing pain.

That’s the first thing I register.

And it registers again and again with every goddamned breath.

I try to shift.

It was a mistake.

Nothing but white-hot, searing down to the bone, dragging me out of the dark one jagged inhale at a time.

I don’t know if I’m alive or if this is some twisted afterlife where torture is the welcome mat.

My body won’t move—dead weight, useless. My eyes fight to open, but everything stays blurred, unbearably heavy.

Pressure. Fingers at my face. Tugging, scraping, working the edges until something gives.

I half expect a straight-razor to my skin. God, I’d take it. Anything to tip me over the edge. One more hit of pain and I can drown in a blackout.

A voice cuts through the fog.

“If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to blowtorch the fucker off.”

Before I can react—not that I could if I wanted to—cold air slashes across raw skin as the mask peels away.

And then I hear it.

Another voice.

Not just familiar. So familiar it splinters me apart and stitches me back together in the same beat.

“Well, shit. He lives. Somebody cue the Imperial March .”

My voice is so choked and dry, the name scrapes out. “Smoke?”

I force my eyes open, just enough. Reality slams into me, narrowing to the only word that matters. “Riley?”

“She’s fine.”

It’s all I need to hear.

Relief unspools, relaxing me back into the mattress. My vision sharpens just enough to catch his grin. He smiles down… right before he drives a finger into my shoulder.

White-hot pain screams through me, ripping a raw wail from my throat. “Argh!”

“We almost didn’t figure it out in time. You’d be at the mercy of the Keenans by now.” He does it again.

I choke back a scream, grinding my teeth and taking it.

Smoke finally eases up. “That’s for keeping us in the dark, asshole.”

“I had to,” I seethe.

“And I had to shoot you in the shoulder.” Enzo leans into view, a cigar clamped between his teeth, smoke curling around his shit-eating grin.

“Enjoy that, did you?” I croak out.

“Not as much as stabbing you in the gut.”

I manage to lift my head an inch, glaring. “If you already shot me, why stab me in the gut?”

“You can’t fake good carnage. The Keenans were out for blood.”

Enzo punctuates the thought by flicking his cigar at me, ash raining down like holy water.

“Besides,” he drawls, “it’s not like I don’t know where the vital organs are, though avoiding them? That felt… wrong and unnatural.” A mock shiver runs through him. “Like fighting left-handed.”

“Or with your arms chained over your head,” Mateo cuts in, strolling through the door with my favorite coffee. Instead of offering it to me, he slurps loud enough to grate.

Bastard.

My glare drives back to Enzo. “You used a serrated blade.”

He spreads his hands, helpless. “Half the room’s seen me fight. What was I supposed to do—announce, ‘Relax, Keenans, I’m just slipping my brother a sedative in a syringe…nothing to see here’?”

“It was a six-inch blade,” I deadpan.

“And not eight.” A wink. “You’re welcome.” I try to straighten my pillow as he leans in, blowing a thick ring of smoke straight into my face, grin stretching wider. “By the time I was finished, you were barely breathing and drooling like a St. Bernard.”

A hand pats my abs, a pain so sharp like my appendix just burst. “ Ow , Christ. What the fuck?”

“Just checking Enzo’s handiwork,” Mateo says, annoyed as he takes another slurp of coffee. “You know, I flipped him for the honor of killing you live on stage. Fair warning: piss me off again, and I’ll be first in line.”

“How exactly did I piss you off?”

“How didn’t you piss me off?” He starts ticking fingers. “Let’s see—faked your death. Let us all mourn your loss. Tried to take on half the universe solo when you’ve got brothers?—”

“Better-looking brothers,” Dillon cuts in from the back of the room.

“With better fighting skills,” Enzo piles on.

“And better brains,” Smoke adds.

It slams into me like a Mack truck. It’s been months, and for the first time, we’re all here. Me and my brothers. Together. Talking.

Or more accurately, them giving me more shit than a manure plant.

And I’ve missed it.

The weight of it crashes through me. I hurt them. It doesn’t matter that I was protecting them or I didn’t mean to hurt them. The fact is, I did.

By now, they’re all staring, murderous glints flashing.

Dillon most of all. My twin, my mirror. His face twists into quiet rage, reflecting everything I’d feel if I was in his shoes.

He looks two seconds from driving his fist straight into my balls.

And fuck, I’d let him.

Not that I could stop him. Right now I couldn’t lift a feather because, fuck, maybe I need a hospital.

Instead, he says, “If you were ashamed of rocking a two-inch dick, you didn’t have to off yourself. They make prosthetics for that shit.”

A glimmer of hope sparks—he’s not really mad. None of them are.

My voice cracks, throat raw. “Back off. Two inches is the new ten.”

Dillon snorts. “Whatever gets you through the night, man.”

Laughter ripples through the room, loud and rough. And just like that, I’m back with my brothers.

God, it feels so fucking good.

“Speaking of,” Smoke flicks a finger at my junk. “I lost a bet. I can’t believe that fun-size cocktail sausage of yours actually works.”

Mateo smacks my foot. “Another reason we’re pissed. You’re about to be a father, and what? Were you ever going to tell us?”

Was I? My throat tightens. “I was trying to keep everyone safe?—”

“I’m not sure how shoving your pee-pee into her vajayjay keeps her safe, but please, enlighten us.” Enzo twirls his cigar between his fingers in a filthy gesture.

“I mean…” Christ, what do I even mean? “What happened with Riley wasn’t exactly planned.”

“So it’s not serious?” Mateo presses. “Because she’s hot.”

“What?”

“Smoking hot,” Dillon adds, straight-faced. “If Mateo’s not all in, I call dibs.”

What the actual fuck. “You can’t call dibs on a woman. Let alone the mother of my child.”

He waves me off. “The baby’s already blessed with my good looks.

And hey—” he snaps his fingers. “Perfect plan. I don’t even have to woo her.

I’ll just pretend to be you.” He rubs his chin like he’s actually imagining it.

“We’ll need to ease her into the massively bigger dick, of course. ” His hand drops to his crotch.

“You’re definitely the bigger dick,” I mutter.

“Tell me, bro—” he pats my shoulder. The one still screaming with a bullet in it. “Which did she like better? Dante or Zver?”

He snatches up my mask, presses it to his face, and in the worst Russian accent I’ve ever heard, drawls, “Perhaps she likes the rough stuff.”

That’s it.

I snap upright—instant regret, pain detonating like an atom bomb.

My snarl rips free, raw and savage.

“If any of you motherfuckers so much as breathes in her direction, I. Will. End. You.”

“Big talk from a man who couldn’t take a toddler,” Mateo fires back.

“I mean it.” My voice drops low, lethal enough to silence the room.

Dillon doesn’t blink. “So… you love her?”

His words are… everything.

A question.

An answer.

Everything I feel to the point I am aching for her more than I’m struggling to breathe.

And, yes, for the record, still struggling to breathe here.

The room stills.

What I feel for Riley isn’t love.

It’s resurrection.

My rusted heart clawing back to life, ripped open and crammed with every hope I swore off.

A chokehold of lust. Fear. Need.

And want.

So much goddamn want.

She is mine. And I will never let her go.

Hell—I’d torch the whole fucking world just to light the gold flecks in her eyes.

But I don’t say any of that.

I simply rasp, “Yes.”

“That’s nice.” Smoke clears his throat, eyes narrowing. “Does she know you’re Zver?”

Shit.

I shake my head, heavy with regret. “No.”

“No?” they all echo in full-on disbelief.

“What was the point? If I was going to die—and it sure as hell looked inevitable—why tell her?”

Enzo tsks, smoke curling from his grin. “You’ve got a lot to learn about women. Trust me—honesty and communication are right up there with nut waxing and date nights watching Magic Mike. Mandatory. Painful. But skip it, and you’re fucked.”

Dillon drops my mask to his face, Russian accent thick and mocking. “So very, very fucked.”

I hold up a hand, staring. “Are we just going to gloss over the fact that Enzo waxes his nuts?”

He waggles his brows, hand gliding between his legs. “For her pleasure.”

We all gag.

Then a woman’s voice cuts through—clear, angelic, and so breathtakingly beautiful, my heart stops. “You’re up.”

It isn’t Pom.

It’s the other woman I love.