Page 68 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

I glance over at Dominic as we load the kids into the car. “Are you sure this is okay?”

He doesn’t even look up. “You? Driving? Pretty sure pregnant women are still allowed to do that.” He glances around the car like he’s actually searching. “Wait—where is your husband?” he teases.

“You have a husband?” Katya pipes up from the back seat, bouncing excitedly.

“No.” My answer is clipped as I slide in behind the wheel.

Though every other journal entry from Dante screams otherwise. Rings, honeymoons, Ricardo Ricci’s number scrawled with CALL HIM in obsessive loops.

He wants me to pick a dress and set a date. And dammit, how do I do that when I still haven’t spoken to him. It’s so awkward, that every day I say I’m going to do it, and somehow, I don’t.

I’m just overwhelmed and haven’t a clue where to start.

Besides, I’m busy.

Hello? Having a kid.

Priorities.

“Oh, good.” Misha pops up with his stuffed Nips, working the toy like a puppet. “We think you should marry Mr. Grass Bowl. “Dominic cuts me a sideways glance.

I bite my lip. What? I know the cardinal rule—thou shalt not say asshole in the presence of angels of innocence.

“You should follow your heart,” Katya adds dreamily. “And don’t take no ships from anybody.”

Dominic and I both lose it.

Solemnly, I nod. “You got it, sis.”

I remind the two to buckle up as Dominic mutters under his breath, “I really need to monitor her YouTube.” Then he quirks a grin at me. “You feeling okay? Want me to drive?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m taking it easy. Just a quick trip to the salon. Nothing to get my blood pressure up,” I assure him before he marches me back to the house.

Months holed up at D’Angelo Central, all high fences and guards, and I’m stir-crazy out of my skull.

Maybe it’s my twisted glass-half-full mentality, but after all this time, aren’t we safe from the Keenans? Because the thought of our baby chained to this house, day in and day out—it’s more than I can bear. It’s heartbreaking.

So me and the little one busted out. Well, with Dominic and the kids since Boris has the day off.

Dominic’s gaze flicks to the side mirror. A little too sharp.

“Do you see something?” I ask, nerves prickling.

I try to breathe through it. Calm, soothing breaths. Everything’s fine.

Now that the D’Angelos have their brother back, an entire stable of wild horses couldn't drag him away. He’s wrapped in the mafia equivalent of bubble wrap—raw power, blood ties, and love.

So much love.

And, by extension, so am I.

Dominic glances back at Misha and Katya, blissfully lost in their audiobooks, headphones clamped tight. Then he says, “Thought I saw a familiar vehicle.”

A sharp alarm clangs in my chest, even after all these months. “The Keenans?”

He shakes his head. “No, just… paparazzi. They caught wind that Dante has an heir. Is a pretty high price on a picture of you.”

God. Not them again.

Apparently Chicago’s bad-boy disappearing off the face of the earth for months doesn’t sit well with the gossip hounds.

I’m not exactly sure what they think they’re after, but tailing Dante’s SUV at midnight is basically asking for a bullet in the grass-cheek.

Dominic exhales, shaking his head again. “We’re fine. The only real threat right now is your terrifying driving.”

“Har.”

By the time we pull up to Mila’s new salon, I’m practically buzzing. When I still didn’t act on Dante’s insane l ittle piggies journal ramblings, he went and bought Mila a salon.

I’m not sure how he knew it was Mila’s dream to own one someday, but here we are.

The kids hop out, and Mila meets us at the door. “Where’s Babushka?”

Dominic reties Katya’s ponytail the way she likes it. “She wasn’t feeling well. So it’s just Riley and the kids.”

“What about you?”

Dominic blinks. “What about me?”

She points to a bright neon sign against a wall of flowers:

Get Pampered or Get Out

The kids start bouncing like they’re on a sugar rush in a bouncy house. “Yes, Papa! Pleeeease!”

Dominic rolls his eyes and sighs like a drama queen. “Fine. But no color.”

We head inside, and Mila’s assistant glides me toward a chair. She’s wearing a frock that screams Pamper Queen across the front, smiling sweetly as she hands me a color palette.

“When are you due?”

“Four months.” I sink into the chair, already half in heaven, then glance down and groan. “My feet look like two baby hippos. How about you do my fingernails first?”

“They’re hardly swollen at all, but I can start with your hands,” she assures me.

“Just relax,” she adds, tapping the armrest. “There’s a massage button. We’ll have you pampered in no time.”

Maybe Dante was right to insist on this. For the first time in forever, I actually let myself relax into the moment, without a care in the world.

Ahhh . Bliss.

I let my head loll back as Mila and I laugh ourselves silly, watching Misha and Katya gang up on Dominic. Or more accurately—hold him down.

His manicurist obeys their every command—blue polish for one, white for the other. What starts as crisp little stripes devolves into a tiny patriotic disaster smeared across his toes.

The second they dry, he shoves his feet into shoes and socks like the evidence might vanish. “Breathe a word of this to Dante, and no cannolis for you,” he warns darkly. “Forever.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Now for your toes,” my salonist says. I’m about to slip my feet into the water when?—

A sharp stab knifes through my gut. “Ow.” I flinch, jerking back.

Then, just as fast, it disappears.

In two seconds flat, Mila’s on me. “What’s wrong?”

Slowly, I straighten, forcing a breath. The pain is gone. “Nothing. I’m fi?—”

The word dies in my throat as the cramp twists harder, vicious.

I gasp, clutching my belly. Sweat begins to pull up my neck.

I’m about to tell Dominic we should go, but out of the corner of my eye, I see him lowering the shades.

“What are you doing?” I pant.

“That black SUV is back.” His voice is flat, clipped. “And I definitely see a camera pointed right here. My guess? They’re calling for reinforcements. And will probably block us in—” His gaze cuts to me, eyes hard. “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine,” I lie through clenched teeth. “You should probably get the kids out of here. I’ll be okay with Mila.”

“You’re delusional if you think we’re leaving you.”

“No—” I bite down hard, riding another wave of pain. “I just need to relax, and they won't chase you if I'm not in the car.”

I drag in a long breath. The pain eases, melts away like it was never there. I force a weak smile. “See?”

In the next breath, it slams back harder. I double over with a strangled cry.

Mila’s face drains. “What do I do? Do I call an ambulance?”

I can’t answer. The pain is too sharp, splitting me in half. Sweat blinds my eyes, slick on my skin.

Dominic’s voice cuts through, firm. “You can’t call an ambulance.”

When the pain finally ebbs, I force my gaze up. “See?” I let out a long breath. “Dominic’s right. No need for an ambulance. But… why haven’t you left?”

“I—” He shifts, uneasy. “I can’t leave you.”

Oh, God. “Dominic, it’s just paparazzi. You and the kids can go.”

His face drains white. My stomach plummets.

“It’s not just paparazzi… is it?”

He gives the smallest shake of his head. “It’ll be fine,” he assures me. “I tried to send for backup, but my phone cut out.”

I can tell by his face he doesn’t mean cut out. He means blocked.

Then— bang .

The back door slams. Is it the Keenans? Heavy footsteps thunder closer.

Fuck .

We’re trapped.