Page 77 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

DANTE

T he world falls still. Sunset spills gold over Enzo and Kennedy’s estate as Father Marc begins. “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise.”

Just over the hill, I catch sight of the half-built eye-sore. A monstrosity that’s blissfully quiet for once. Four weeks of relentless hammering silenced, but only for today.

Because in ten months, when the dust finally clears, Riley and Kennedy will be living their forever-afters side by side.

Both women insisted that the yards connect, so they do, with rose-lined paths threading all along the way. There are orchards and gardens, and a pool. There’s even a spot carved into the hillside for Dominic and his brood.

Pom gave me back my father. So what my wife wants, she gets. She has visions of toddlers tearing barefoot across the grass, laughter spilling wild, Boris lumbering after them like a grizzly-sized teddy bear.

Yeah, there’s a reason she has that vision. All she has to do is look around.

Misha struts down the aisle like he owns it, Truffles trotting at his side in a matching tux. Then comes Princess Katya—gown, fairy wings, the whole nine yards. She scatters rose petals with one hand and brandishes a sword with the other.

Pom takes the aisle, and I’m wrecked. I’ve been undone by this woman so many times, but in Ricardo’s Aphrodite slip dress? Fuck. I’m a prayer from falling to my knees.

This woman owns my heart, and it’s like we’ve always been destined. And I’m hanging on by control and sheer testosterone not to openly bawl when her hand finds mine.

Of course, she’s chosen an exquisite Shah Jahan’s Kard Dagger to cut it off with tonight.

The girl of my dreams, and she likes knives. If that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.

“Dearly beloved,” Father Marc begins, voice carrying into the hush. “We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

Her hand squeezes mine.

“If there is anyone here who objects, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Even with all my reassurances, Riley still flicks a glance at Seamus. Third row. Arms crossed. It doesn’t help that he’s stone-faced, like he’s posing for a mugshot.

“His daughter still hasn’t married a D’Angelo. Why would you invite him?” she’s asked three times a day, every day, for a week. Like the dutiful wife-to-be, when all else fails, use repetition.

For a heartbeat she waits. We all wait.

Any day now, Seamus.

Finally, his smile cracks wider, and he gives a single nod.

And just like that, my Pom exhales and relaxes.

Father Marc clears his throat, ready to move on, then stills again. The world halts at the tiniest sound. An interruption that ripples a hush through the entire crowd.

From the bundle in my arms, a soft little fuss rises and my heart fills with more joy I’ve never known.

Amelia .

Instinct takes over. A hush of aww’s fall as I rock my perfect girl gently. “Shh…” Her eyes find mine, heavy-lidded, and she slips into sleep.

I actually have to growl at my wife so she doesn’t snatch her away. “You lost the bet,” I whisper into Riley’s ear. “No one objected. She’s mine for an hour.”

Riley rolls those big green eyes and mutters, “Whatever,” but her smile melts my world.

Father Marc’s voice slides back in, soft and amused: “You are now husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

Thank God.

We kiss, and it’s the kind of kiss that starts and finishes me all at once.

For hours the night hums with something I haven’t felt in a long time. Pure, ridiculous happiness. We laugh until our cheeks ache and every last stiletto lies abandoned on the lawn. And all the kids are finally out cold, sprawled across the makeshift campsite that is Enzo’s great room.

When Seamus takes his daughter out, they move like he’s been twirling her since she was Amelia’s size. And every time he glares at Dillon and Mateo, I laugh. It’s the back the fuck off, she’s never getting married stink-eye.

The same look I’ll sling at any man who thinks he’s good enough for my girl.

Enzo drags a chair over, drops down beside me, and hands me my ninth glass of champagne.

He taps his cigar into what’s left of my wedding cake and smirks. “I thought you said small wedding .”

He’s not wrong. What was supposed to be twenty of our closest friends blew up into a full-blown spectacle. Alliances, factions, and family. It’s less wedding, more sold-out arena.

“Hey, don’t blame me,” I mutter, lifting the glass. “The wives made the guest lists.”

He tugs the baby monitor from his pocket and drops it dead center on the table like proof of life. “If there are any more kids here, I’m gonna need another damn Diaper Genie.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Between Z and Ivy’s brood, Smoke and Tia passing baby Valentina like a football, Baby Mullvain, and my own little one, there are more diapers in this place than bottles of champagne.

“You’re the one who volunteered to put them all to sleep,” I point out.

He arches a brow, correcting me. “My wife volunteered me.” A slow drag on his cigar, smoke curling between us, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Speaking of wives, I’m taking bets on when Riley gets knocked up again.”

“Seriously?” I deadpan. “She’s barely in the D-zone.”

His shrug is subtle. “Well, if she’s anything like her sister…”

I stare at him, the thought slamming into place. “Holy fudging shit. Are you?”

He nods, a rare softness breaking through the smirk. “The doctor confirmed it today.”

For a moment, the noise fades. A rare, raw hit of emotion chokes the air between us. The D’Angelo’s are multiplying. Family roots, digging deeper.

That’s when Smoke wanders over, cigar in one hand, whiskey in the other. He jerks his chin toward the dance floor. “Is that Seamus Keenan spinning your wife around?”

I nod.

Smoke shakes his head. “Christ. It’s a wedding, not a Dancing with the Stars audition.”

“Pom was terrified he’d object. But when the king of the Irish says he’s coming, short of a minor war, you don’t stop him. Not when his little girl is coming.”

“Fiona’s here?” Smoke looks around. “Where?”

I point toward the redhead dressed to kill.

I sip my champagne, and shake my head. “I don’t know what Pom was so worried about. Or how she’s missed the fact both Mateo and Dillon brought her as their plus-one.”

Enzo follows my gaze, snorts. “Or the fact that even from here, it’s impossible to miss all that eye-fucking.”

Smoke chuckles into his glass. “One thing’s clear—Fiona Keenan’s going to be a D’Angelo. Just a matter of figuring out which one.”

Before I can laugh, a waiter appears at my elbow. “Your wife wanted you to have this,” he says, handing me a box.

I flip it open. One look, and I know.

“Well, gentlemen.” I push back from the table, tucking the mask into my pocket. “Gotta go.”

The crowd fades when I find her. I take her hand, and together we vanish into the house.

She may have been Dante’s breathtaking bride at sunset, but she’ll be Zver’s dirty little girl before dawn.

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