Page 75 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

DANTE

“S o. You found me.” Uncle Andre drags on his cigar like it’s a dick, lips curling around the words.

“I did.” My voice is flat.

I stroll in slow, and take in the space.

The room should be paradise. Doors flung open to a turquoise Caribbean sea, a small white boat bobbing in the distance, salt air pouring through.

How it still reeks of sweat and cheap smoke is beyond me.

His face is still a mess of bruises and botched stitches that makes me grin. And that fucked up nose?

Yeah, no surgeon alive could make it whole again.

Not that it matters. Nothing about him will be whole in an hour.

I move past them and peer at the monitor. “You’re not the only person I found.”

“I’d caution you against any sudden moves,” he hisses, jerking a thumb at the guards. “They’ve got itchy trigger fingers.”

Two soldiers stand like statues, rifles loose at their sides, eyes laser focused on me.

“If you’ve come to grovel, it suits you,” he says, biting down on the cigar. “Shame about Tuscany and what? Nearly four hundred women and children. Reduced to ash, wasn’t it?”

I shrug and pull open the fridge, scanning the premium liquor and beer. I grab a water. “Word travels fast. And as much as I hate to burst your bubble, you heard wrong.”

He stabs the cigar toward me. “That’s not possible. I saw the footage, Dante.”

“My brothers have gotten good at planting fake news.” I pop the cap on the bottle. “All I can say is… tunnels.”

Confusion flickers across his face for a heartbeat, then the old anger snaps back. “Get to the point, Dante,” he snarls. “And I know that bitch of yours is carrying your baby. If you want a truce, fuck off. I’ll give you till the count of ten before my men shoot you.”

“Oh, I don’t want a truce,” I say, calm as the tide. “I want a war. Because you’re not the only one I found.”

He spits a wet, guttural laugh. “So you found Elena. That psycho? Keep her. Fuck her. Or kill her. Dealer’s call.

A gift for the happy father-to-be. Not that you’ll be a father for long.

The moment you step out that door, there’ll be a contract on your head.

On second thought, I’ll kill you and your whore and parade that bastard around as my son. ” He flicks cigar ash my way.

He’s fishing for shock, for that tiny human jolt that says I still have something he can take. He wants me to flinch. He gets nothing.

I circle back to Elena. “Kill Elena?” I fiddle with his IV. “You’ve always been short-sighted. Psychopaths make the best vigilantes. The best hunters. You know that.”

His lips twitch, a crack in the armor. “So that’s how you found me.”

“Yes.” I shrug. “You really should’ve paid her. But she’s not why I’m here. And I didn’t burn eight hours on jets and boats just to choke on your stench.”

I slide the photograph onto the metal tray between us and tap it once.

“ Dream Team. ”

For the first time, all the color bleeds from his face. The monitor ticks faster, a frantic rat caught in a cage.

“Six years,” I say. My voice cuts over the growing bleeps of machines. “Six years of looking. Of wondering. Of wasting our time, our money, our lives. And all that time, our father was right under our noses.”

He can’t even meet my eyes. Not out of remorse or guilt. The asshole has no conscience. Just fear. His hand twitches, signaling for a guard. But that man’s too busy gazing out at the ocean.

Andre fumbles for a lie, and chokes one out. “It was an accident. Antonio slipped?—”

“Accident,” I echo, the word burning like bile on my tongue. “You mean he accidentally slipped into two bullets that tore through his skull?”

He squirms, which is useless. His hips are pinned in plaster and he’s strapped to a fucking urine bag.

I crack my neck and lean closer. “I predict you’re about to have your own little accident” I murmur. “And I’m psychic about these things.”

“I have guards!” he barks so loud, I’m not sure if he’s reminding me or his guards.

I rip the leads off one by one.

“He rests in our mausoleum now. In a proper sarcophagus.” I snatch the cigar from his fingers as his face twitches. “To our father, Antonio D’Angelo. Always and forever loved.”

He spits, furious. “Shoot—him!”

The guards blink.

“They’re not going to shoot me, Andre. See?” I shove the cigar in his cheek until he fights me off.

Grabbing at the wound, he howls, “Shoot him! Shoot—him!”—hysterical for a full two minutes before I even bother to move my hand.

The guards trade one practiced look. In one clean motion they shoulder their rifles, aimed not at me, but at Andre’s head.

He goes still.

And for the first time in my life I see it clear in his eyes: fear. And it’s fucking glorious.

I sip my water, then casually add, “You know who else Elena found? Fiona.”

Technically Dillon and Mateo wrapped it up, but Elena did most of the legwork.

“I wanted to kill you myself. With my bare hands.” Saying it out loud is clean and honest. The crueller truth is I’m pissed I can’t.

He actually looks relieved. “I knew you weren’t stupid enough to kill me.”

I shake my head. “The Keenans paid for the honor,” I add. “They returned every cent Enzo spent on the auction. Alliance rules: they get the kill. I get to break the news to you.”

His grin peels off, replaced by pure, wet panic. In moronic desperation, he lunges.

The tip of my knife kisses his throat and stops him cold.

“Please. Don’t kill me.”

“Beg already,” I murmur, amused. “Why the rush? We have the whole day.”

He scrabbles for the IV pole like it’s a weapon. Like it’s going to save him.

I take a step back and flick two fingers at the guard.

The big one moves in, precise and unhurried. The butt of his rifle cracks against Andre’s temple with a dull thud.

Andre crumples, both hands clutching his skull, wheezing through the pain.

I turn toward the balcony, the ocean glittering beyond. “Sharks,” I say, almost thoughtful. “You always had a fascination with them. Or, with eating them.” I blow out a slow, satisfied breath. “How ironic.”

At this point, he’s sniveling. He knows what’s coming. But it’s the not knowing—the how —that drives most men to the brink.

Panicked, he grabs his IV stand like, what, he’s going to jab me with it?

The guard butts him again.

That shuts him up.

“Sharks and I have a lot in common,” I tell him. “We smell fear. We like the taste of blood.”

Andre’s bravado peels off like cheap paint. His eyes go wide. “I have money.”

“Yeah. We already raided your place. Us and the Keenans.” I pocket my hands and blow out a whistle. “You had one hell of a stockpile of gold. Ever hear of bitcoin?”

He spits a sound halfway between a sob and a choke. It’s disgusting. And music to my ears.

I point at the boat bobbing in the harbor. “No bullets. The Keenans want this dragged out.”

He howls, “Pleeaassee!”

I ignore him and simply tell the guards, “The harbor master will take him. Seamus will be waiting.”

Then I walk away.

From the penthouse, my brothers and I savor the moment. Enzo went all out. Lobster and champagne. From the balcony, the tide readies itself for the real work. To take, drown, and erase every trace that Andre D’Angelo ever existed.

A miracle. Served cold.

Andre tried to break us. A torture that would buried us slowly over time.

But we kept the one thing he could never kill.

Each other.

For the first time in years, something shifts inside me. We’re not healed. Not even close. We’re still raw, grieving, furious. But we’re moving forward. Together.