Page 7 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

Journal Entry | Riley

Sometimes when I’m trapped and all alone, I picture myself in a grand villa in Tuscany.

Once, I read about a Baroness simmering cinghiale ragù over wide ribbons of pappardelle—it sounded divine… right up until I learned cinghiale meant wild boar. Hard pass.

But cantucci with Vin Santo? Almond biscuits dunked into sweet amber wine? I could definitely live on that.

I dream of Tuscany like I’ve already been there.

Maybe someday.

If I survive the wrath of Zver.

* * *

T here’s a knock at the door, but no pause for permission.

Not that anyone needs it.

Evil master’s lair. Evil master’s rules.

But usually, there’s at least the courtesy of a wait.

Not today.

The door blasts open, and?—

A five-year-old rockets through first, plastic sword raised high. “Help me!” he shouts, charging across the rug like a pint-sized knight.

“Huh?” I blink as he nearly smacks my shin.

A second later his sister barrels in after him, braids flying, clutching a stuffed axolotl to her chest, its frilly pink gills bouncing with every step. “You can’t escape, Misha!” she squeals, laughter spilling into every corner of the room.

Katya and Misha.

Their Babushka calls them trouble.

I call them fellow inmates.

Dominic just calls them his.

They circle the rug, shrieking, kids, swords, and a stuffed axolotl locked in some kind of epic showdown.

I close my book I’ve been reading, trying not to smile, but my chest squeezes anyway.

Once upon a time, Kennedy and I were like this, spinning entire worlds out of nothing, fighting wars with plastic swords and cardboard shields.

Life has a way of torching childhood castles. And I’ll do anything— anything —to keep theirs standing.

Misha swings wide, his plastic sword whistling too close to the mantel. My pulse spikes. I lunge without thinking, steadying Katya with one hand and snatching the vase with the other before it shatters against the hearth.

“Careful,” I murmur.

She beams up at me, gap-toothed. “Thanks, Auntie Riley.”

The word sucker-punches me.

Auntie.

Nobody calls me that.

Nobody should. And yet it sinks deep, a quiet blade slipping under my ribs, to a place behind the walls of my heart.

Katya plops onto the rug beside me, hugging her axolotl like it’s armor. Her little brow furrows.

“Riley…what’s a bookshop like?”

The question nearly undoes me.

“A bookshop?” I echo.

She nods, eyes wide. “We read about it in Sally Squirrel Builds a Bookshop. And do they have toys?”

“Like Nipples,” Misha chirps, tugging his little plush mouse from his pocket.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard. We’re all pretty sure he means to say Nibbles, but after a month of failed corrections, we’ve officially surrendered.

“ Mm-hmm . Just like Nips.”

The second it leaves my mouth, I have to clamp my lips shut, because if I let even one laugh slip, I’ll be on the floor.

“And cookies?” he asks, clutching little Nips to his chest.

I nod quickly, not sure if I’m about to laugh or cry. These two have never been to a bookstore. And I hate that.

I brush sweaty bangs from Katya’s forehead. “Bookshops are… magical. The shelves stretch taller than you—rows and rows like endless hallways. Some have toys and cookies, sometimes even story time.”

“Really?” Misha bounces onto my lap, expectant, hungry for it.

“With other kids?” Katya asks.

My arms fold around him instinctively. “Yes. You can wander forever, lose yourself in stories you never even knew existed. It’s…” I falter, the ache curling sharp under my ribs. “It’s freedom.”

Their eyes sparkle with wonder. Hungry for things I can’t give them. Because they’re trapped here. Same as me.

“Maybe I’ll take you one day,” I whisper.

“No, you won’t.” Dominic fills the doorway, every line drawn tight. Anger personified.

And all of it aimed squarely at me.

The tension slips, replaced by a rare softness. “Go help Babushka,” he says, voice warm but firm. The universal language of fathers trying to win a small battle.

They don’t budge. Arms pretzeled tight.

Misha shifts deeper into my lap, small body pressing closer.

Dominic doesn’t blink. “There’s medovik on the counter.”

Russian honey cake. Bribery at its finest.

They still hesitate, so I nudge them gently. “Save me a piece for later? Please.”

That does it.

They drift toward the door, the sound of small feet fading down the hall.

And then it’s just me and Dominic’s scowl.

I’ve crossed the line before. Blown past boundaries. But this time, it’s so much worse.

And, yes, I know all the places I’m not supposed to go because Zver drew an eerily precise map showing me. Dates. Times. Every one of my botched escapes sketched like a rap sheet.

And around it all, a fat red circle in Sharpie, branded with four words: Places Riley Can’t Go.

But it’s worse because I lied. Lied right to Dominic’s face.

How many times did I promise Dominic he could trust me? That if he loosened the leash, even an inch, I wouldn’t pull?

And then I did.

It took forever to carve out even the smallest shard of his trust. And I torched it—shot a flaming arrow straight through it, Viking funeral style.

I open my mouth, ready to vomit out everything—the pregnancy tests, the desperation clawing at my heart, the fact that I’m nine-freaking-teen. “Dominic, I’m sorry. I just?—”

His hand snaps up, cutting me off before the words can crawl out.

That’s when I see it.

Blood.

Fresh, wet, smeared across his cheek, a trail dripping down his neck. The cut, jagged.

My heart doesn’t just drop. It plummets. Straight through my ribs, through the floor, shattering every lie I’ve said.

That I’d only be gone a few minutes.

That no one would notice.

That I wouldn’t get caught.

That Zver’s all bark and no bite. That he’d never really make good on his threats because, hell, after two months of captivity, the worst he’s done is confiscate my books and withdraw my cemetery privileges.

Not this time.

Dominic’s bleeding. And I’m to blame. God, I’m a kid sprinting with scissors, blind and stupid. When will I learn that when the blades go flying, they don’t stop at me?

It was only a matter of time before Zver shifted the crosshairs from me to Dominic. Next, the bullseye will be on his grandmother. Then, his children.

Tears sting, blurring everything until Dominic’s face is just a smear of rage and disappointment.

Stupid. Stupid.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Oh, right. I wasn’t.

Dominic catches my stare, and too quickly pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his cheek like that will erase what I’ve done.

The sight curdles in my throat, acid and bile scorching their way down.

I shove to my feet, ready to take Dominic’s fury head-on.

Only… he’s not alone.

When the book I’ve been reading slips from my hand and smacks the floor, I dive for it.

Too late.

“ Forbidden Alpha’s Feral Bride, ” the stranger reads, his fingers snatching it up before mine can.

He doesn’t offer it back. Doesn’t even look at me. He simply gives it to Dominic, who promptly tucks it into his pocket. My last bastion of escape—gone.

Technically, it’s contraband.

And strike two with Dominic.

The stranger strolls in slow and deliberate, his gaze meandering across every corner of the room. His sharp eyes momentarily lock on each camera, to the now empty bookshelves, before finally landing on me.

He takes his time, studying me in one long, unblinking sweep. I stare back.

He’s new.

And new never means good.

There are no visitors here. Ever.

My stomach knots tight, a sick coil that won’t loosen. Whatever this is—this stranger now sitting on the edge of my bed—it’s bad.

Very, very bad.

And there's something about him that looks strangely familiar. Which could be equally as bad considering I’d been at an auction block with the creepiest men in Chicago.

Zver won with a number so obscene I honestly thought they weren’t talking in U.S. dollars.

I swore that if he saved Mila, I’d do whatever he wanted. He’d snap. I’d obey.

But this? Is he…handing me off?

Every nerve tightens like a tripwire. When a pawn becomes a queen, does it sweeten her sacrifice?

Or did your stupid habit of running shove him two inches too far, Riley?

Is that why he hasn’t touched me?

Never claimed me?

Both hands fly instinctively to my belly. What if I am pregnant and Zver already knows?

I can’t breathe.

Fuck.

Edges blur until the room narrows…and everything folds to black.