Page 58 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

DANTE

“T rinity.”

I breathe her name as my sister—my only sister—steps into the room.

Of everyone I gutted with my death, I know her cut was the deepest.

She’s carried enough pain since her attack to break a hundred men. And now I’ve added to that burden.

There’s no way to explain it away. Not that I won’t try—I owe her that.

And I’m about to when her hand lifts. I brace for the slap I deserve.

Instead, she musses my hair. “I’m very mad at you, mister.”

Okay…

She doesn’t sound mad. She sounds… cutesy.

“Huh?”

“You could’ve been killed.”

Yes. And in so many torturous ways, it’s staggering.

But I don’t say that.

I’m too busy processing the fact my sister is scolding me like a toddler who ran into traffic.

She wags a finger at me. “I don’t care if boys will be boys. I was worried.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“No more fight club.” She sticks out her pinky. “Promise?”

I’m not sure what the fuck is going on, but I blow out a breath and play along. I release a smile as my pinky hooks with hers. “Promise.”

Her eyes brighten, her smile flooding the room with a warmth I don’t deserve. “Good. When the guys are done fussing, I’ll be back. I made all your favorites—lasagna al forno, stuffed shells with lamb and ricotta, and cannoli. Lots and lots of cannoli.”

She hugs me hard—real fucking hard. Pain rips through me as I smother the wounded bear growl trapped in my chest. “Sounds good.”

Then she strolls out, and I just stare after her.

“Did I die and wake up in the Twilight Zone ?”

“Here’s the thing,” Smoke says, rubbing the back of his neck. “None of us had the heart to tell Trinity you actually died, so… we took some creative liberty.”

My stare goes flat. “How much creative liberty?”

“The kind that turned into a full-blown production.” His smirk is all teeth. “We told her you were on a European tour, climbing the MMA ranks. Weekly stats. Fake socials. Even highlight reels.”

I blink, dumbfounded. “And she bought that?”

“The headlines helped.” Dillon gestures to his face, smug. “This face has launched a hundred fake news stories.”

“She was at my funeral.”

Mateo slurps the last of his drink. “We said it was for the act. Promo material for every phase of your career. This one for your retirement. ‘Will this be the end of Dante the Dynamo?’ ”

“Dante… the Dynamo?” I ask, flabbergasted.

Mateo raises his hand. “That was my call. Though I was torn between that and the Meatball Mangler. ” He grunts, flexing like a wrestler.

I blink, dead serious. “How could you soil my legacy with a lame-ass name?” My arms cross, irritation burning hotter than the bullet hole in my shoulder. “You know my fighting name. The Inferno. Not some kiddie-club bullshit. Dante the Dynamo makes it sound like I’m three feet tall.”

They all howl with laughter, the room rattling with it.

It dies down slow, and when the final embers of laughter fade, Dillon pulls up a chair. “Give us a minute.”

One by one, they file out. Each one pats me—leg, arm, head. Just…touching me.

Like they need to confirm for themselves I’m real.

That I’m alive.

Then, once they’ve left, it’s just me. And my reflection.

Dillon takes a seat, same as he’s done a million times since we were kids.

We don’t talk right away. We never have to. The fucker’s always been too comfortable rummaging through my head.

“She really is okay,” he finally says.

My throat knots, and the question I’ve been choking back since I woke up finally makes its way out. “And the baby?”

He nods once, steady. “The baby’s fine.”

Relief pours out of me in a long, agonized breath.

That’s when he slips the paper into my hand.

I look down.

It’s an ultrasound.

All breathing suddenly stops.

It’s my baby.

Our baby.

I’ve never been an emotional man, but fuck if my eyes don’t sting, prickling hot.

“Allergies?” Dillon asks, smirking as he offers a box of Kleenex.

“Fuck off.” I swipe one, dab quick, and chuck it.

He chuckles. “You’re going to be so fucked if it’s a girl.”

The air leaves me in a violent rush. Am I going to be…

A girl dad?

Christ. I missed the first ultrasound. Missed that moment. And now it’s frozen on a grainy sheet of paper, glaring back at me with all kinds of tiny, unborn judgment.

A miracle I wasn’t there to witness.

I study the image harder, tilting it this way and that, trying to tell its butt from its elbow.

So hard, my eyes cross.

Seriously, I can’t even tell it’s a baby. I’d have better odds spotting an infant in a Rorschach.

My voice cracks on it. “Do they know the sex?”

He nods… and says not a goddamn word.

I hold the image high. “Well?”

“Smoke’s a vault. You know that. And your little woman’s not saying boo.”

I pin him with a hate glare. “You know, don’t you?”

His lips twitch, tight around a smile he refuses to let unlock.

Oh, goddamn it.

I huff, angry. Elated. “Can I see her?”

“When you’re ready.” He shifts in his seat, uneasy. “You know, as pissed as we were? All of us together won’t hold a candle to hers.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because she’s a Mullvain. And I’m pretty damn sure she’ll go full-scale, unleash-the-kraken, murder-your-ass-back-to-the-crypt kind of revenge rage when she finds out you’ve been deceiving her for… what, a month?”

I wince. “More like three.”

He whips out his phone. “Cool. Ordering the Kevlar now. One pallet or six?”

“I don’t care if she rains holy hell on me a hundred times over.” My voice is raw, stripped to the bone. “I have to see her. I’m ready.”

Dillon studies me, eyes unflinching. “If she has no idea you’re Zver—and Zver is you—when she walks in…who are you?”

The question carves straight through me. Truth is, I’m so knee-deep in fucked-up, I don’t even know where one ends and the other begins.

I could dodge his question.

Or outright lie.

But instead, I give him the only truth I know.

“I’m the man who loves her. The man who’ll bleed, burn, and kill for her. And the man who’ll never fucking let her go.”