Page 8 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

“P erfection,” a man’s voice murmurs low.

My eyes snap open.

The stranger from earlier is now seated beside me on the bed, rubbing my hand, fawning over me like a helpless deer he can’t wait to mount over his mantel.

I yank my hand back and push to sit up, but the room tilts.

“You’ll just faint again,” he says.

He’s right.

My body folds, slumping back against the bed.

He offers me a glass of something fizzy. “Dominic left this for you.”

“Dominic… left?” I don’t’ believe it.

Dominic left me.

Alone.

With a stranger.

While I was out cold?

I sip the ginger ale without tasting it, my mind racing nowhere fast.

Stay calm, Riley.

And I do—on the outside.

On the inside, I’m tracing routes in my head, mapping how to reach Da’s pocketknife from under my pillow without him noticing.

The stranger’s smile starts lazy, then collapses into something tighter, sadder. His eyes drag another long look down my body. “You really are ravishing, you know.”

His eyes land on my fuzzy Eff the Patriarchy socks slouching at my ankles as he speaks. “You and I can help each other, Riley,” he says.

I stare him down as I wrap my hand tight around the cold metal of the knife. That’s when the Scottish girl in me comes out. “I’m not sure how I can help a nutjob who fawns over unconscious women. Polite pass.”

He rises to his feet, and rubs the back of his neck. “Christ, if I wanted to hurt you, I easily could have. You would’ve woke up bound and gagged and in any assortment of compromising positions.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“I’m trying to tell you, Riley. You can trust me. I need your cooperation. Not your fight, little Scots girl.”

“How do you know I’m Scottish?”

A throat clears at the door.

Dominic steps back into the room, a cool compress in hand. He crosses to me and sets it gently against my temple.

The stranger shuts up instantly.

Obviously, there’s something I’m not supposed to know. But what?

As smooth as dodging goose shit, the stranger shifts gears. His eyes drift back over me with fresh interest.

“Red?” He pauses. “Plum?” he murmurs, softly speculative, head tilted. “With that long, dark hair and those eyes…perhaps something darker. A deep, rich wine.”

His gaze locks onto the glittering necklace circling my throat.

Black diamonds.

A million dollars’ worth of fuck-the-peasants money.

My leash.

And so damn heavy it took weeks to get used to their overbearing weight, especially after Zver added the tracker.

Zver let me run exactly twice before that charming little upgrade. Now his Find-My-Captive app is fully operational.

Which is exactly how he found me. I kick myself again. Only an idiot would think he’d install a tracker and not use it.

Transfixed, the man taps a finger thoughtfully against his lips. “Ah,” he murmurs softly, as if selecting next season’s runway palette. “Blood should be perfect.”

His eyes find mine, and recognize the alarm painted on my face like a nuclear warning.

He adds, “Blood red. As in, the color.”

I'm not sure why he thinks that clarifies it in my head, but whatever.

His gaze flicks sharply to Dominic. “How long do I have?”

Dominic straightens. “Zver wants her ready tonight.”

Tonight. Right.

The note Zver left on a silk blindfold.

I threw it out. Buried it in the trash.

He resurrected it. Now it sits center stage on the dresser, daring me to pretend I don’t see it.

Tonight, Zapretnaya.

The man checks his watch, a deep frown pulling at his mouth. “Three hours isn’t nearly enough time.”

Dominic’s gaze remains unmoved. “It’s all the time you have.”

A silent standoff stretches between them, eyes locked in some unspoken negotiation. My nerves knot tight, like I’m a rope they’re tug-o-warring over.

After a tense pause, the stranger finally huffs out a reluctant breath. “Fine.”

Dominic doesn’t flinch. He simply raises a brow. Pure authority. “It was never an option, Mr. Ricci.”

Several guards file in, lugging several heavy trunks before retreating in silence.

Dominic’s gaze cuts back to this Mr. Ricci. “Is this everything you need?”

Ricci studies the trunks, lips pressed tight, then gives a single nod. “Yes.”

Dominic studies me. For the first time since I’ve known him, his eyes are cold and unreadable. “Stay in your room. Do as this man says. You won’t like what happens to this man if you don’t.”

First off, My room is a misnomer. Every room in this fortress belongs to him. Zver. State-of-the-art surveillance included, complete with four cameras aimed at every angle of my bed.

But second and more importantly, Dominic’s threat isn’t for me. It’s for him. Which means Mr. Ricci didn’t come here by choice.

When Dominic leaves, a thick silence settles until the man finally exhales and starts rifling through a trunk.

“Our host is charming,” he scoffs.

“Careful,” I warn, gesturing to the cameras in the room.

He shrugs. “Those are video, not audio.”

My mouth goes dry. All those F-bombs I hurled in frustration? Totally wasted.

I level a stare. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

“Who am I?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes like the answer should be obvious. “People usually recognize me.” Then, with a flash of forced charm, he extends a hand. “Ricardo Ricci.”

He waits, clearly fishing for recognition.

I give him none. Because I have no idea who he is. Just a firm shake and a flat reply.

“Riley.”

He shakes his head, muttering angrily. “When a dangerous Russian wildcard kidnaps you and forces you into servitude, the least he can do is make sure everyone you’ll be attending to knows who the hell you are.”

Blankly, I stare. Yup—got nothing.

His impatience snaps back into place. “Let’s get you to your feet. We don’t have time.”

The dizziness I braced for never comes. I stand. I walk. I act like I haven’t just imagined six ways to slice him if I needed to. Though the pocketknife’s still comfortingly within reach.

He circles me, like I’m some forgotten statue tucked in a gallery corner, waiting to be dragged back into the light.

Then he raises his hand. Way too close to my head. Before I can stop myself, I flinch.

An instant reaction that makes me burn.

For all my brave bullshit about reaching for a knife, I didn’t. I froze. Heat creeps up my chest, across my cheeks. I hate that I froze.

But, I’m not the only one.

When I look up, he’s also frozen, hand suspended midair. “May I?”

“May you… what?”

“Just, trust me.”

I don’t trust him. But, tight and reluctant, I nod. Because he isn’t my step-monster. And if he wanted to hurt me, I doubt he’d bother asking.

I’m not sure exactly what I’m consenting to until he gently tugs the scrunchie free from the rat’s nest piled on my head. Inky black spills down, cascading across my shoulders, down my back.

“Remarkable,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent.

I roll my eyes. If this is supposed to be a seduction, he swings, he misses.

Though as potential predators go, he’s not nearly the asshole you’d expect. He’s nice. Attractive even, in a way that MILFs probably adore.

But me? I’m not auditioning to be part of Zver’s tasting menu. And I’m half a second from telling him as much when?—

“You look just like her.”

Unease and curiosity flicker together. “Her…who?”

“Your sister.”

Kennedy?

The realization slams in, a fist around my heart. I haven’t seen her. Haven’t talked to her. God, she probably thinks I’m still mad about her marrying Enzo.

Which I am. But not at her. At him.

And when Zver cut me off from everyone, it was easier not to hurt when there are no reminders.

But just hearing her name… It sharpens me. Gives me something to fight for.

“Mr. Ricci?—”

“Ricardo,” he corrects.

“I need your help.”

His mouth quirks. “And I need your cooperation.”

“If I cooperate… will you help me?”

His gaze narrows, weighing me. “What do you need?”

“To talk to my sister.”

“Oh, sure. No problem.” The sarcasm snaps off each word as he chuckles. Then, his long finger jabs at my face in full accusation. “You’re insane.”

Okay, scrap that plan. And I really wish he’d stop giving me the stink eye. Hello? Fellow kidnapping victim here. Blame Zver.

A faint smile ghosts across his face, more bitter than amused. “Even if I wanted to help, I couldn’t. I wasn’t exactly invited here. And my phone?” He snorts, giving an exaggerated shrug. “Yeah, because they totally let me stroll in with a phone. My AK-47 too.”

I think fast. “Then a note. Can you at least get her a small note?”

“No.”

My hands clasp together tight. “Please. One small note.”

His eyes flick to the necklace at my throat. “I know what that means. Sorry, Riley. Captives don’t get to pass notes in class.”

I think fast. “I don’t need her to know where I am. I just need her to know I’m okay.”

He just stands there for way too long, stroking his beard, thinking it over.

My Scottish hackles flare. “Either you help me,” I snap, “or you fail at whatever the hell your task is.” I spin away, giving him the cold shoulder. “I won’t cooperate.”

It’s a bluff. Of course, I will. I won’t put one more person in harms way. But desperate times, and he’s my only shot.

He exhales, smooths his hair like he’s drafting a resignation, then holds up two swatches. “Fine. But you first. Silk or satin?”

“For—?”

“Restraints.”

A silent duh hangs in the air.

Of course. Why am I not surprised? Oh wait… I am.

It’s a small quid pro quo, Riley. Just answer. I grit it out. “Silk, I guess.”

He nods before he hits me with a rocket launcher. “Remove your clothes.”

My heart slams into overdrive. “What?”